THE UNIVERSITY OF MISSISSIPPI

FRESHMAN WRITING MAGAZINEVOLUME 5 - FALL 2011

V E N T U R EOnlineV E N T U R EOnline

Venture Online Table of Contents Volume 5 - Fall 2011

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PoetryTears from Auschwitz..............................4Lauren Oelze, Nashville, IL

How Long Must I Carry This Staff?......9Gabriel Wilson, Gulfport, MS

Half Moon Cay .....................................10Ashley Wellen, Highland, IL

Extra $20 for a Name ...........................19Author Bryant, Jackson, MS

Glorious Destruction.............................19Daniel Conrad, Brandon, MS

Grandma’s Legacy ................................19Chase Melch, Fort Worth, TX

Speak, Wisdom ......................................28Matthew Fernandez, Vancleave, MS

We Seek and Find Nothing...................33Matthew Fernandez, Vancleave, MS

I Ask Only..............................................37Matthew Fernandez, Vancleave, MS

Wire........................................................38Taylor Mitchell, Jackson, MS

Southern Harp ......................................38Taylor Mitchell, Jackson, MS

Prose57 Kinds...................................................1Carter Moylan, Miami, FL

Directions ................................................3Suman Ali, Memphis, TN

The Liberation Sparrows ........................5Jennifer Walzel, Round Rock, TX

Goodbye Matthew ...................................6Leanna Tholl, Water Valley, MS

Don’t Cry, Baby.......................................7Hayley Hampton, Sulligent, AL

Texas Boy...............................................11KayLynn Rehberger, Highland, IL

Belize: A Privileged Country ................13Cameron Gaines, Austin, TX

Have You Ever Been in Hell?...............15Hyojung Sarah Choi, Daegu, Korea

Desperation ...........................................17Nina Farris, New Orleans, LA

My Sky Your Sky ...................................20Jeffrey Farragut, Philadelphia, PA

The Grace ..............................................21Katherine Baggett, Ocean Springs, MS

The Trap ................................................22Ashley Wellen, Highland, IL

What it Took ..........................................23Jami Steen, Moselle, MS

Soap .......................................................25Matthew Stein, Kansas City, KS

Horse and the Boy ................................29Kaleb Rowland, Orlando, FL

Snow White and the Bitchy Giant ........31Devren Bryant, Euless TX

My Forehead as a Welcome Mat ..........34Christina Wurm, Mandeville, LA

It’s Not Always About Giving ...............39Di’Shaliek Wright, Alpharetta, GA

ArtAlyssa Miller, Tupelo, MS ................Cover, 4,

Autumn Smith, ......................ii, 9, 10, 28, 32,Oxford, MS

Kate Satimore, Carriere, MS ..................3, 19,

Brianna Gray, Belden, MS..................5, 8, 27,

Carter Moylan, Miami, FL ...........................6,

Jeffrey Farragut, Philadelphia, PA...14, 30, 40,

Matthew Fernandez, Vancleave, MS ....16, 37,

Jessica Foshee, Byhalia, MS.................18, 38,

Suman Ali, Memphis, TN.....................20, 22,

Ashley Wellen, Highland, IL ......................21,

Maria Dahmash, Madison, MS...................24,

Leanna Tholl, Water Valley, MS.................33,

Keaton Cooke, Mandeville, LA..................36,

Volunteer Readers

Student Editor: Cindy Tran

Student Art Editor: Steven Anderson

Editor: Milly West

Designer: Larry Agostinelli

Student Readers:• Andrew Anderson• Steven Anderson• Jeffrey Farragut

• Brianna Gray• Ha Nguyen• Mary Todd• Cindy Tran

• Griff Brownlee• Wendy Buffington• Emily Cooley• Ann Fisher-Wirth

• Jane Gardner• Amy Mark• Daniel Von Holten

Autumn Smith, Limo on a Mississippi Road ii

From the Editor

Now in our fifth semester of publication, Venture Online has“taken off.” I say this because until now we have never had morethan 50 entries of poetry and prose to be considered for publica-tion, but this year, we had over 80! There were a wonderful groupof teachers that really promoted the opportunity Venture offers,and without them we would not have had such a large number ofentries from which to choose.

I worked this year with a team of student editors who werethe first “judges” in the selection of prose and poetry for this issue.Those students, formerly published in Venture, met with me oncea week and each one of them read every story and every poem,and together they decided yes, no, or maybe. Some entries receivedresounding yes votes but others were talked over and sent to facultyreaders for their opinions. With the votes of both my studenteditors and our faculty volunteers, we have been through what hasturned out to be a very difficult selection process.

The range and scope of this edition surprises me. We have somememoirs, often refined from class assignments, some poetry–someinspired by art, others inspired by memory or loss, but we also havesome longer pieces that go beyond memoir to short stories, somebased in life experience, some imagined. Many students submittedartwork whether they submitted writing or not. Gifts abound.

You will find sweetness, adventure, humor, reflection, andresolve as you turn these pages and read what these students havewritten. Every one of us will look on these poems and stories asamazing, and when we do, let's remember that there were a lotmore entries that didn't quite make it.

I want to give special thanks to my assistant editor Cindy Tran who worked diligently through every step. Cindy’s poem waspublished last year, and this year she wanted to stay involved.From our first meeting this semester, she has shown her ability tospeak honestly and compassionately about every entry.

Thanks to Bob Cummings, director of the Center for Writingand Rhetoric, for his continued support of Venture. At his suggestion,we made the magazine more “student-run,” giving our former writers

an opportunity to see the other side of publication—selection andediting. Amy Mark and the Mystic Krewe of Mykarma (MKM) donates a prize to the best work in prose, poetry, and art!

A big thank you goes to Tim Angle at the Division of Outreachfor his continued support of Venture, and to Janey Ginn and the Outreach creative team for their vision and expertise. Our designer,Larry Agostinelli, is the creative talent behind every issue andalways takes a thoughtful interest in presenting the students’ workin a first-rate manner. Deborah Freeland puts Venture on the webeach year and is in charge of the launch day presentation. Whatan amazing group of people!

I also thank the wonderful and talented people at UniversityPrinting Services. I work each year with Gay Eubanks who man-ages to expedite our printing job and get it to the “launch” just intime. And finally, to Glenn Schove, undeniably the most energeticand resourceful soul at CWR, goes heartfelt gratitude for her helpeach year with the launch party (and everything else).

Sincerely,Milly West, editor

Venture Online can be found on the English, CWR, and Outreachsites at Ole Miss.

http://issuu.com/literary_visual_art/docs/venture_vol1http://issuu.com/literary_visual_art/docs/venture_vol2http://issuu.com/literary_visual_art/docs/venture_vol3http://issuu.com/literary_visual_art/docs/venture_vol4http://issuu.com/literary_visual_art/docs/venture_vol5

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The first time I went to see my therapist for anxiety,I was with my mom. He asked us sorts of things like,“Does anybody in your family have characteristics ofanxiety problems?” and “Is there a lot of pressure inthe household?” But the answer was no; truthfully therewasn’t any history of anxiety, and my parents never putany pressure on me to perform or to be obsessive withsucceeding.

Since neither of these things was true, he decidedthe problems were mental and my own, so he wantedme to come back to therapy for a few weeks and seehow far we got. Even though my original need was torid myself of anxiety that would cause me to have break-downs in the middle of tests and impair my ability todo basically anything at all, it was the second to lastsession about self-esteem and depression that I willremember for the rest of my life.

I remember knowing that it wasn’t something to beembarrassed about, but I still didn’t want to tell anybody.I was afraid some people would not want to be aroundme if they knew I went to therapy. That they would say,“That kid goes to therapy. He’s got something wrongwith him.” But I kept going back because I needed toget my problems fixed or else I didn’t know how long Icould function as a healthy person.

My therapist and I would learn something new everyvisit. I learned that everything isn’t always a big deal and

the worst possible thing will not always happen, buteven if it does, so what? He learned things about me.Self-esteem, over self-consciousness, and depressionwere all encompassed in our new therapy sessions. Ourquestions kept changing yet our routine would alwaysstay the same.

He would give me two ovals to hold in my hands.They would alternately vibrate, which he said was toimitate my brain activity while I’m dreaming. Whileholding the vibrating ovals, I would close my eyes andthink about a problem I have. He would tell me to thinkabout a situation in which I would have anxiety and justthink about what I would think normally. So I thoughtabout driving home at night and thinking things like,“What if when I get home my house has burned down?”Then he would tell me to repeat my thoughts out loudand he would talk to me about what I was thinking andassure me those things wouldn’t happen, and if theydid, so what? People can fix things.

Looking around his office, I noticed his war medals,his degrees, as well as the amount of cigars he smokesfrom the ten or so boxes he had lying scattered aroundhis small office. Degrees from multiple colleges andnaval medals were not something someone wouldexpect to see in the office of this man if you saw himon the street.

Standing at five foot six, which is pretty generous,he was direct and a very uncompromising individualwhen it came to what he wanted me to tell him, whichwas sometimes awkward for me since I am so intro-

57 Kinds by Carter Moylan

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verted and often soft spoken. Even though his tone washarsh, he gave me one of the most beautiful and simpleassurances that I have ever heard.

I was talking about one of my main insecurities–playing bass. I’ve been in two non-classical bands inmy life both with very popular people who are very talented and whom I consider friends. One night afterone of our shows, my singer was with his girls beingcongratulated, and my drummer was with his girlfriend,also being congratulated by a clustered, sweaty mass ofpeople. My lead guitarist was going to a party to getwasted, basically what he did every night, and there Iwas sitting in silence with the rhythm guitarist who isalso one of my closest friends.

Why was there no mass of people around me, whywere there no girls, why was there no party? Thesequestions went round and round in my head. It hadnothing to do with my friends because I have the great-est and most supportive friends in the world, but whenyou have self-esteem problems, it doesn’t matter.

I couldn’t answer the questions, so I just looked atmy friend and asked if he wanted to go eat. We leftwith no glory and no congratulations except from thepeople we happened to see walking out of the venue.Everyone loves singers, it’s the sexy part of the band,and everyone loves our drummer because he was Mr.Warrior (the equivalent to a high school Mr. Universe),and I couldn’t stop thinking that no one would everenjoy me being me because I was too boring.

Yet, without waiting for me to finish, my therapistcrossed his short little legs and put his finger on hismustache and told me, “That’s why Heinz makes fiftyseven kinds.” He told me not to worry about the imper-fections, not to care if what you love doing isn’t whateveryone else does, because basically it wouldn’t existif someone didn’t love it enough to bring it into exis-tence, and that it wouldn’t have maintained existence ifnobody loved it afterwards.

After our session, I was thinking to myself that I knewthis was probably a commonly used phrase. I didn’t care. I had never heard it before. I couldn’t take my mind offthose seven words. Sitting in my car on that hot andhumid Miami afternoon, I knew that day would be withme forever. I haven’t missed an opportunity since thento tell someone who may be feeling the same way aboutthe words of the short, aging, and tough therapist.

I can’t help but smile when I hear those words in myhead, loud and clear, ringing with beauty and elegance,and with purpose—the beauty to change my reality, thepurpose to bring myself to life. He gave me somethingto hold onto until I die, or at least until Heinz goes outof business and I find a new condiment company to tellmy grandchildren about.

Editor’s note: Although Heinz had more than 60 products in 1892,the number 57 was chosen because the numbers “5” and “7” heldspecial significance to Henry J. Heinz. The number “5” wasHenry Heinz’s lucky number; the number “7” was his wife’s luckynumber. (Wikipedia)

Kate Satimore, Spider Web3

My world is a scatter plot, and there is no line ofbest fit. Though I have lived in Cleveland and Chicago,I come distinctively from the South, and Memphis,Tennessee, is my home. As one of my teachers oncesaid, in a thick Southern accent, “We’re in the midstof the Bible Belt! Heck, it should be called theConservative Belt!”

I am an 18 year-old Indian Muslim living inAmerica, and being as Liberal as I can be, my com-munity is my foil. Frankly, I think my community hasmolded me to be a multi-perspective person; I cannotsay that some of the Southern values I have encoun-tered have not affected or altered my perceptions,ideas, and affinities. For instance, I cannot part withcountry-style food. “I love me some mashed ‘potaters’and fried chicken,” I would say in a fake accent. I trynot to be caustic, but, aside from food, most of thevalues of the South have clashed with mine. I believethat this has destined me to become a different person,one who seeks knowledge by breaking beyond theconfines of her origin.

The debatably greatest philosopher Aristotle oncesaid, “All men by nature desire knowledge.” I desireto know more about things that fascinate me. I amcurious about all the Islamic history and traditions Ihave not yet been taught in religious education classesor school. Being a Muslim student living in America

at the time of religious discrimination, I have to knowmy background to face any fallacies with a strongand amiable mindset.

I continue to learn about my own heritage and theexperiences of my Pakistani ancestors. I have beenbrought up in my Muslim culture and try to under-stand the harshness of the world around me.

Generally, my dreams have always been aboutcultural enrichment and I plan to continue this adven-ture throughout my life. As I have mentioned, myworld has thus far been a scatter plot with no pattern.I wish to align these points in the future and hopefullythey will point me in a positive direction.

Directions by Suman Ali

Alyssa Miller, Togetherness 4

I remember the warm and sunny springs back homeAs I’m here cold and hungry while digging in yourloamI’m digging in this earth because you said I have toI have to bury the dead of my race because our exis-tence has come due

So let me cry one last tearYou make me look in the eyes of dead relatives,see their fearYou took their lives and you’re stealing mineBut somehow, you think that’s completely fine

So let me cry one last tearFor all the moments you stole when you brought mehereFor all the times I could’ve laughed, instead I cryI cry because I’m scared to die

I don’t know what’s worseBeing here under this curseWhere I’m beaten and abused all day And not a person here who sees it my wayOr would I rather go down into the chamberTo escape this terror and agonizing labor

I don’t know which because I still have hopeI hope one day I can learn to copeSo I can survive and live again, be freeSo I can let the world seeWhat kind of horror and destruction happened hereHow the termination of my people was so near

There are very few of us leftBut we will do our bestTo be once again the great people we wereIf we unite and be strong, we can do it I’m sure

But staying united and strong will be hardBecause I was just shot and killed by a Nazi guard.

Artist’s note: This is the park where The Wall ran through Eastand West Berlin. This image represents togetherness.

Tears from Auschwitz by Lauren Oelze

Brianna Gray, Bird5

This bird, like me, stands plain, free from unnatural color and composition,just off center, staring at a blank canvas.

Sitting alone, the bird stares, small and fragile.

When my parents had finally finished helping me build my new nest, theyleft. A fully grown girl stood free, alone for the first time, liberated fromthe confinements of her home.

Surrounded by new people and a new place, I am given a blank canvas, andwhat to put on it is entirely my decision.

I look to other canvases in the museum, already bright with color!

They are peacocks and I am a sparrow. I look toward my canvas with longing in my heart to put something meaningful and bright in the center,something that will define me as being more than the tiny bird in the corner.

How can it be so easy for others?

The Liberation Sparrows by Jennifer Walzel

In 1974 Walter Anderson painted a single sparrow - 75 years later a young girl responds to that painting.

Poem in response to Walter Anderson’s painting “White-Throat Sparrow” c. 1934, on view University Museum 2011 courtesy Walter Anderson Museum of Art

Carter Moylan, Parkour 6

I find myself slowly gliding up the staircase at Matt’shouse. I know it’s his house, but everything is different.What was once a banister is now open? The cream wall onthe left has turned to dull grey. There are words everywhere.I just can’t figure them out. As I climb I’m wondering whatit means. What are these words? I can’t make out whatthey are saying. At the top of the staircase something seemsdifferent.

I’m in a spacious room that’s unfamiliar. I know thiscan’t be right; his house had a hall that separated two rooms.His sister’s on the left and his on the right. I think there wasa bathroom in between. Not an empty room! The walls stilllook strange to me. They are grey. Then I realize they aren’tfinished. It looks almost like the inside of an old buildingwith tiny boards plastered together and nothing to coverthe interior studs. They are open and non-plastered.

As I continue to walk into the open room some of thewords are becoming clearer. It looks like a note. Someonehas written a letter all over the walls. I turn to my right andwalk to the next room. The only object in there is a stand-ing full-length oval mirror.

I am suddenly frightened as I see a shadow pass behindme in the mirror. I turn, but nothing is there. My heart sinkswith fear and I bolt for the door. Then I hear a laugh, a veryfamiliar laugh.

He quickly grabs my arms and stops me in my tracks.As I’m pulling away in fear he quickly says, “Stop, Stop.It’s o.k. I’m here. I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean todo it.” What do you mean, you didn’t mean to do it, I ask?At this point I’m crying in Matt’s arms, confused withwhat was happening.

I knew he was gone and shouldn’t be here at thismoment. I shouldn’t even be there at his house. Especiallynow that he had died! Yes, he died, I thought to myself.

I went to the funeral. I cried for days. I cried until therewere no tears left to fall from my eyes. How could he behere by my side, I thought, puzzled. But I was there in hishome and he was standing holding me again. He continuedto tell me he was o.k. and that it wasn’t supposed to happen.Before we walked out of the room he told me he loved meand that it’s o.k. He repeated, “I’m o.k.”

We walked down the stairs hand in hand. The whole conversation felt so real. He was right next to me. I couldn’t be dreaming–it was just too real. We walked towards thestairs to leave. But I froze for a moment, at the bottom ofthe stairs stood the girl who stole him from me. My Matt,my friend, My Love! She stole my heart. Anger welledinside me and I went down the stairs after her. I could feelthe dream setting in. I chased her out the door pushing herto the ground. The entire time I could hear his laugh.

I quickly turned and embraced him one last time. Hekissed me like before. Before the hurt, before he broke myheart. It felt good and right, but it only lasted a momentand then it was gone.

As I woke, my heart raced andI was suddenly crying. I wasn’tcrying out of grief or pain. I finallywas crying out of relief. I felt atpeace for the first time in months. Ifelt like he knew I needed that clo-sure. I needed to know he reallycared for me and that he didn’t killhimself on purpose! It was an acci-dent, and he was at peace.

Goodbye Matthew by Leanna Tholl

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Breathe. I told myself. Just breathe. I had not yet comeinto the dimly lit room with the rest of my family. It wasour time to privately mourn for the dead. I had promisedmyself to show no emotion. I could not let myself break, orthere would be nothing to make me whole again. However,when I saw the open casket and the sharp outline of thebody within, I froze on the spot. The tears were coming.

“Hayley? Are you going to come see Nana?” My dadpeered back at me. He had noticed my hesitance and waslooking at me nervously. Even though I had been told thatmy grandmother had passed, even though I had seen the relentless crying and heard the bitter wailing of her daughters,part of me still believed that she was still alive. If I went into that lonely room, it would all become real. She would bedead, and my heart would break.

“Hayley?” my dad called for me again. He came to me inthe hallway and put his big, brown hands on my shoulders.

“Could I be alone with her Dad?” I whispered shakily.“Just for a minute?”

He studied me with his kind, dark eyes. At first I sawconcern in them, and I was afraid that he would say no, buthe surprised me this time.

“Just for a minute,” he said firmly, but not unkindly.After my Dad ushered out the women and my cousins, Imanaged to ease through the door. The carpet was thick andmuffled each step I took. The air was cool and crisp here,even though I expected the stench of death. Light showndown from a high window, and I heard a mourning doveoutside. Everything was peaceful.

I began to relax, and got a better grip on my emotions. Ifingered the crucifix around my neck for strength and movednear enough to the polished casket to touch her. I refused tolook at her face, afraid that I would find it contorted withpain from the monstrous disease that had taken her.

On September 25, 2008, Nana passed away from cervicalcancer. I should have known that something was amiss whenshe had stopped dancing. I ran my hand down the silky skirtof her dress. They had dressed her in soft yellow, the colorof the roses that bloomed in her yard year after year. Mycousins and I would play and dance around that lovely rosebush, pulling off the golden blooms and putting them in ourhair. Nana would burst from the house in her night slip andcurlers and chase us around the yard with the dusty oldbroom she reserved for just beatings.

I laughed to myself, a small sound breaking through thesilence. I stroked her neatly folded hands. Those hands hadcarried the world, and wiped away my tears. Those handswere such frail and wrinkled things, but they had beenwelcome against my cheek. I closed my eyes and wishedthat those times were mine again. Then I noticed a changein the air.

What was that smell? It was flowery, pungent, andfamiliar. I opened my eyes and saw that in the corner of theroom, where light did not touch, was an elegantly carved,wooden table, and on top, held down by an antique vase,were three incense sticks. Nana had loved incense. I closedmy eyes again and let myself get lost in the memory.

I could hear old-time Gospel in the background, comingfrom Nana’s old bedroom. She always kept the house darkduring the day, with only “God’s light” coming through thefloral curtains. I could see her bobbing her oily curls and

Don’t Cry, Baby by Hayley Hampton

Brianna Gray, Flower 8

twisting to the rhythm of the music. It was like her spiritwas on fire. She twirled through the wisps of incense thatshe kept burning all day.

Around the house, she rarely wore anything but a slipand house shoes. “Yea Lord! Yea Lord!” she would call outin a rapturous fit. She would clap her hands and speak intongues. I would just sit and stare in awe, careful not todisturb her swaying. I often laughed at such ridiculousness,but looking back now, it is not ridiculous in the least. Nanahad thrown away all order and praised the God shebelieved in. My life had always been about order. I wasnothing like my golden Nana who loved and danced withjoyous abandon. I was reasonable. I resisted emotion, andshe had loved me.

“Smile, Love boat! Show that I have a pretty grand-daughter,” she would say. I did smile, my biggest smile, andshe would give me a piece of Werther’s candy and a kiss.

I couldn’t take it anymore! I opened my eyes and justgazed at her face. There was no pain etched in the manycreases I saw. Instead, there was a kind of peace, pure andlovely. I gently traced those Indian features with the tips ofmy fingers. My lower lip quivered, and my eyes started toburn. Oh how I loved this woman! She had always beengood to me. Seeing her blissful smile brought back onemore memory.

I had been crying one day because my momma had hurtmy feelings terribly. Nana had just held me.

“Don’t cry, Baby,” she said, and kissed me. “Nana lovesyou and she’ll always be here for you.”

I had been angry and hurt when I had been told thatmy Nana had died. Did I not have the right to know whatwas wrong, that she was sick? Could I have not at least

seen her once more? I looked around the room. The dark,painted walls were bare, except for one picture that hadsomehow escaped my attention. It was a painting of Jesussmiling down gently at his accusers from the cross. Nohate was in his eyes. I knew then that I could not be angryat my family or Nana for hiding the illness from me. Theyhad only wanted what was best, and they were hurting justas much as I was.

I bent down and kissed her on the forehead. Her skinwas hard and cold, but all of my anger had gone, and mysoul was finally at peace. I let myself cry.

“You ready. Hun?” my dad asked from the doorway. Iquickly wiped those tears away, resolving to cry no more. Iwas ready. I mean I truly was ready, ready to love withabandon, ready to dance without a care. Peace had finallyfound me. I smiled at my dear grandmother one last time,knowing that this was not goodbye by any means.Someday I would see my Nana again. We would dancetogether. There was no need to cry.

Autumn Smith, A Nagata & Grandfather (drawing)9

How Long Must I Carry This Staff? by Gabriel Wilson

Ride sure and steady, ride tried and true Have no regrets. Will tomorrow have you? We all have an end, some far, some nearDon’t think too much. Stay calm and steer

For the future is now the pastand the present eagerly fleetingTomorrow is soon amongst us Shall you wake up sleeping?

We all have a journey, each one of our ownBut that doesn’t mean we face it aloneLive sure and steady, live tried and trueWake up alive, and let tomorrow have you.

Poem in response to Walter Anderson’s painting “DonQuixote” c. 1936, on view University Museum 2011 courtesy Walter Anderson Museum of Art

Autumn Smith, Waterfall 10

Half Moon Cay by Ashley Wellen

Inspired by: Horn Island Triptych by Walter Anderson

We strolled alongToes sinking in the sandHands intertwinedAdmirers

We walked on to exploreStopping to search for shellsA piece of the island to take with usCollectors

We moved alongPushing each other furtherBarefoot on hot prickly rocksDaredevils

We lay downTurquoise water tickling our toesHands intertwinedLovers

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Chelsie Marie Schneider was born in the small town ofHighland, Illinois. Being the youngest of the three children,Chelsie received most of the attention in her home. At theage of three, her parents separated.

A year after the divorce, Chelsie’s father married themaid who cleaned her parents’ home prior to their divorce.She was devastated. Not only did this marriage affectChelsie emotionally, but it also affected her socially. Herperspective of men changed in a negative way, includingher ability to trust and love. She was taught many lessonsfrom the people that were a part of her life. Those whofailed her made her more independent. Those who lovedher helped when self-assurance was not enough.

Chelsie kept her days occupied by juggling school, work,friends, and cheerleading. Free time was non-existent inher life, and keeping busy meant she did not have to dealwith her father and his new wife. She had many friends inhigh school, but she stayed far away from boys. Thoughboys tried to ask her on dates, Chelsie never gave in. Thatwas until she met Tom Williams.

After several dates, Tom became the only man thatChelsie could open up to and trust. He changed the way shesaw men and how she felt about her father. The couple wasinseparable for two years, up until it was time for college.

Tom was on a soccer scholarship at McKendree, a near-by private college. His being from Liverpool England, asidefrom his general good manners, opened her eyes to whatthe world had to offer. Chelsie thought they were going tobe together forever. To Chelsie, every moment with Tomwas like a movie scene that she could not stop watching.But the movie was about to have a very bad ending.

Unfortunately, the relationship with Tom did not workout. He gave her the impression that he did not want a long-distance relationship. Soon after the split, however, he was

dating someone new. She was crushed, but soon resigned.Yet another male left her sitting dry and alone, like a plantin the desert. She decided to go as far away from Tom aspossible by going to a college in the South. She applied tomany, but fell in love with the University of Mississippi,Ole Miss. The seclusion of the breath-taking, historic towngave Chelsie a sense of hometown comfort, all the whilegiving her access to people that came from a completelydifferent culture. But, even in beautiful surroundings, dangercan lurk in the shadows, staying hidden beyond the surface.

Chelsie came to Ole Miss not knowing one soul or hav-ing one idea about the South. That anxiety did not keep herfrom the decision to get out in the world and meet new people.Being anxious to begin a brand new chapter in her life, shequickly made friends with the girls on her dorm room floor.All of the girls on her floor constantly talked about recruit-ment, or in other words “rush” to join a sorority. Feeling secluded, she decided to apply for fall recruitment just likemost freshman girls on campus. Going into rush without understanding the extent of how serious Greek life was at Ole Miss, Chelsie felt like a goose in a pool of swans.

After several Gamma Chi meetings, rush week hadfinally arrived. The week was a blur that Chelsie neverwanted to think about again. When she received her invita-tion to Phi Mu on bid-day, she ran to Sorority Row as fast as a cheetah, leaving all of the other running girls in the dust.All that went through her head were visions of swaps, date parties, and all of her new sisters. She became acquaintedwith ninety five freshman “Phis” all in the same confused,anxious position as she was.

After receiving her bid day welcome, the Phi directorinformed all of the new girls that their first official swap wasthe coming Tuesday. Chelsie had only two days to gatheroutfits for the theme of the swap, which was TalladegaNights. For the next two days, Chelsie could barely con-centrate on anything as she tried to contain her excitement.When Tuesday finally arrived, after what felt like ages, she

Texas Boy by KayLynn Rehberger

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had butterflies so badly that she could barely stand.A fellow pledge, Ashleigh, invited Chelsie to come to

her dorm room to get ready for the swap. Being excited toget to know her new sisters, she immediately acceptedAshleigh’s invitation. The girls a good two hours to getready and then headed to the house to catch the bus to theLevee, a local bar. It was a Phi Mu and Kappa Sig swap.Just when everything seemed to be falling into place,Chelsie was about to meet her downfall of the year, aKappa Sig named Derek Bethel.

Derek was a southern boy from Houston, Texas. Chelsie fell for his southern charm immediately. Right off the bat,the two of them started dating on a regular basis, hardly everspending a moment apart. As the relationship became moreserious, Derek’s true personality came out. He went frombeing nice and easy-going to controlling and aggressive. Hisbehavior was severe to the point where he would not allowChelsie to go home on holidays. Derek wanted to be ableto control her every move, but that would not be possible ifhe was not around her. So, he would take her to Texas withhim where he could constantly keep an eye on her.

Fights began to break out between the two constantly.He would not even allow Chelsie to go eat at the Phi Muhouse with her sisters because he was insecure about herbeing away from him. Because of this, she lost manyfriends and opportunities to get acquainted with her sisters.

The year ended badly with cops being involved inmore than one situation. As summer approached and schoolwas beginning to wind down, Derek began to act more likethe person Chelsie first met and knew. She, of course, fellfor it and believed he had truly changed. They agreed to waituntil school started back to see if they wanted to continuetheir relationship, but in the mean time call and see eachother over summer break.

Chelsie said goodbye to him without thinking thatwould be the last time she would speak to him. When she

went back home to Illinois, not once did she receive aphone call from Derek.

Chelsie loved her summer all the more because shewas happy to be reunited with her friends and family afternot being able to see them for most of the year. Chelsierealized that boys can be many things, whether good orbad, but family is forever. August had finally approachedand school was just around the corner. Chelsie Schneiderpacked all of her belongings and said her goodbyes as shebegan her journey back down to Mississippi for her second year of college at Ole Miss. Knowing what mistakes to avoid,she was ready to make the best of her time at Ole Miss.

Although Chelsie did not always have this outlookabout her present time-being, or her future, every event,obstacle, and person in her life helped and educated her.With people dropping in and out of her life, Chelsie’sentire life has been altered not just once, but several times.Tom may have left her broken and alone, but he taught herto always go for what she wanted and to keep pushing untilshe achieved her goals. Derek, made her realize that peoplecan put on fronts and change frequently. In exchange forthe horrible year, she learned not to give up her time andwork ethic for any boy. She realized that men come and goand if women let them get in their way, they will be stuckholding the extra baggage the men leave behind.

It is strange how one person, or experience can have alasting impact on someone’s life, changing it for the good,or even the bad. Every mistake can have a life-long lessonin store; it is just a matter of how people take it.

Despite her experiences, Chelsie gained courage to standalone and continued to be optimistic. Correct judgment of a person sometimes comes through being hurt and learningfrom the ones before. Even if one’s judgment is accurate,goals and achievements should always come first. Chelsienow knows there are no limits in life; people get out whatthey put in. Most importantly, Chelsie learned to be herself.

13

Walking through the tropical Belizean jungle, pastextraterrestrial looking vegetation, under rotting rope-boundbridges swinging treacherously sixty yards overhead, onlyto swim up into a cave infamous for swallowing up clue-less tourists, I asked myself, “How did I ever get into thissituation?”

Well the answer can be put quite simply. I volunteered. Two of my best friends and I had decided that rather thanto merely amuse ourselves with a summer vacation like somany of today’s privileged persons, we would experiencean exotic locale with the intent of bettering the impover-ished community around us. Upon arrival I was struckwith a nostalgic feeling that would slowly evolve into astrong sense of familiarity.

The purpose of the mission trip, organized by a Cajunminister named Jody, was to help the native Belizeansbuild an orphanage under the direction of a local man wewould grow to both respect and admire. This man was adrug lord’s brother and right-hand man turned ministerfollowing a near death experience. He found God as hestood alone and bloody, the sole survivor of a botcheddrug deal. Hoping to right his wrongs and give back to thepeople, his people, that had been terrorized and even furtherdevastated by the corruption to which he contributed, heformed the “Laugh Out Loud Ministry.”

The years studying to become a minister in the UnitedStates gave Jody a multicultural advantage over the others.Under his direction, we learned the Belizean customswhich required different actions and processes; whether it

was a simple greeting or a different method in the orphan-age’s construction. We would have never been able to relateand interact with such success if it weren’t for Jody.

Building the orphanage consumed the majority of ourtime, but every few days we would take a break to explorea majestic venue of the beautiful country. On one such dayI began to realize my attraction partly resided in the simi-larities Belize bears to Bermuda, my birthplace and homefor six years. Many of the buildings had the same archi-tectural style, favored a bright and fruity color pallet, weresurrounded by an abundance of similar species of tropicalplant life, and housed accommodating people along theocean. After an hour long drive on a bumpy rock road in acramped van without air conditioning, we finally arrivedat Blue Creek.

Upon arrival, the entire village became mobile. Mothersand their children lined the stretch between the road andriver with blankets to showcase the numerous handcraftedgoods that would need to sell to supply their secludedlifestyle. A guide was required to be allowed past thispoint, so we recruited a machete-wielding local to lead ourtrek. Every few steps we would see a spiky looking plantor oversized bug to which our guide would aim his bladeand state, “death” or “killer” in a heavy accent.

Eventually, we reached a series of newer lookingwooden cabins, a rare sight in even the more-populatedareas. Our guide must have intercepted our curious gazesand began to sound out a word as he pointed to two intel-ligent looking Caucasians sitting on one of the porches.“Arch-ae-olo-gy.” We were later informed that differentteams of archaeologists had long been studying the Mayancivilization that had resided where we stood over 1000

Belize: A Privileged Country by Cameron Gaines

Jeffrey Farragut, Curious Child 14

years ago. However, by this time we were preoccupied;someone had disturbed a hive of freakish Belizean bees.We scattered.

My friends and I ran straight off of the crude woodenplatform overlooking the river and shared an experiencewith the Mayans as we were immersed in the crystal clearwaters that once served as an essential resource to theirlifestyle. The guide sat on the bank of the river andlaughed at us. He must have been capable of identifyingmany of the insects, because Belize has been known tohave had “killer bees.”

It was at this time that I had a shocking revelation. Wewrongly pitied these people. Coming into their homes andfacing their way of life only to feel sorry for them wasdisrespectful. In their eyes, we were there for them toshow us the realities of a more natural life, a tightly-knitinterdependent community, and the misconceptions aroundother cultures. Prior to my interactions and friendshipswith the Belizean people, I failed to see the advantagesalong with disadvantages that inspired the undeserved pity.These “disadvantages” were considered by them only to bethe normal obstacles of their day to day life, injecting ablend of strength and courage that contributes to theirunique culture and is apparent in each and every Belizeancitizen.

I used to think that such people envied the lives ofAmericans, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Sensingmy disillusionment, one man stated that a simple life suchas his would always be preferable over ours. He told methat the structure of our society is undesirable to manypeople of the world as it brings about many complicationsand inspires corruption in empowered figures.

My arrogance was exposed, as a few weeks entirelyflipped my perception of the world and its people.Returning to America now seemed to be the true definitionof seclusion: a guarded and sheltered life in which peoplecan see only what they choose to see. In such seclusion,many of us subconsciously absorb propaganda and themisleading opinions of others, leading us down an unfor-tunate path that can only result in a generally naïve society with a skewed apprehension that stereotypes the unfamiliar.

15

I was seated on the train, waiting for my destina-tion. Like a normal day, I anticipated how I couldenjoy downtown with my best friends. Finally, therewas an announcement to let people know the stationname. All of sudden, somebody started to noticesomething was happening, but I didn’t care about itbecause that was my time to get off the train. I stoodup and got ready for the gate to open. At that time,the train became foggy with smoke. Someone yelled,“Fire!!”

Everybody stood up and packed in front of thedoor to get out, and I was pulled back. The train was stopped and the door was opened. I grabbed someone’s coat, but he shook off my hand. I just stood behindthe others, waiting to get off the train. That’s why Idon’t like getting surrounded by people. But that wasthe wrong decision. While others got off the train, thelights went off in the train and in the station.

Finally, I got off the train. I could not help but losemy way. I had to go two more floors up to get out ofthe station. It was a dark and urgent circumstance, andall I could do was stand at the corner of the stationwhile inhaling disgusting gases and ash. The train forthe other direction went to the station and stopped.Because of the wind from the other train, the fire gotbigger. I wished the lights would come on again. I could hear fearful screams from the second train. It was

being swallowed by terrifying fires. Everybody punched the door and cried. I could hear people shouting tohelp them, and there was nothing I could do.

That was Hell.Sticking to the wall, I tried to find where stairs

were. Black smoke passed over my head. I couldbarely walk. Whenever I inhaled, the breath of deathentered through my nose and mouth. I coughed harsh-ly over and over again. Struggling to climb the stairsseemed like scrambling toward the stairs of heaven.

“So, this is how I am going to die,” I thought. Moreover, I was rushed with ideas. “Though I am

only an elementary school student, there is a possibil-ity of death. What is dying? It’s too painful. I neverexpected this kind of death. I want to see my mom.My father is not here. He promised that he would pro-tect me no matter what happens. I should have beggedher to buy me a cellphone, so I could call her now. Iwant to stop breathing. It tastes too awful. My friendsare going to wait for me until I do not appear. Howwill my friends feel when they see my name throughthe news screen as a victim of this fire? What if mybody cannot be identified? How will they know who Iam? Why can I not see the panorama of my life?Others assured me that people see their lives shortlybefore dying. I want to go up. I want to live. I hopedthis is just a dream, just a bad nightmare.”

Following the wall, I could finally reach the stairs.However, the more I struggled to go up, the more I

Have You Ever Been in Hell? by Hyojung Sarah Choi

Matthew Fernandez, Fresh Air 16

felt like I was losing my balance. Suddenly, I couldnot find any reason to live. I would rather stop breath-ing than stay in this state. I was not afraid of dying atthis point, I welcomed it. If this is the way I disap-peared, I wanted to make it quick. I lay down com-fortably at the stairs and got ready to finish my life. Itook deep breaths to speed up my process of dying.Tough cough again. I tried to sleep on the hard, dizzyand dark concrete stairs.

When I opened my eyes, my mother cried beside me, and I was laid not on the stair but a soft, cozy andwhite bed. I could not move my body, but I could think.I lived.

Later I thought that I had been strange. How Icould give up on my life so easily? I don’t know why,even now. Maybe I did not have any ambition in mylife, no regrets for the way I lived it, or just did notknow what dying was because I was too young. If Iwere an adult or a more mature person at that time, Iwould have tried to escape from that station.

At the hospital I saw much news and many articlesabout the fire. It was recorded as the world’s secondlargest fire at the station. The cause of that fire wasone person who has a mental disease who commitsthe arson just because he did not want to die alone. Ittook about 200 people’s lives, but the criminal lived.Another reason the damage was bigger was the driverof the second train. He was too surprised to turn offthe master key of the train which could have con-

trolled the door. Because of that, a majority of thepassengers on the second train passed away. I waslucky to be a person who could live through such ahuge fire. After that time, I seriously thought aboutwhy I lived and realized how foolish I was. I decidedto consider everyday as the last day of my life. Now Ihave an ultimate dream about my future and have lotsof things I want to achieve during my life.

Everybody passes through their days without suchkinds of trouble. They sometimes forget how importantlife is, how breathing fresh air is a magnificent expe-rience and how their parents and friends are precious.As a person who passed through an urgent situation, Iwish others would know that we are not too young todie. We should live by doing our best at every momentif we do not want to regret the way we lived our lives,so that when we go to the sky, we are at peace.

17

Being the typical teenager, I was never appreciative ofthe life I had. I was born in a loving family with their prior-ities set right. I was lucky because I graduated from one ofthe highest ranked schools in the country, Isidore NewmanSchool. However, being at Newman I found out that thepeople around me were, let’s just say, well off. I began todemand more expensive belongings. All I wanted was toblend in with all my friends. I eventually grew into a materi-alistic girl who only cared about how much I could spend.It was during this time that I constantly fought with myfamily. They did not understand how important “fitting in”was to me. Sooner rather than later, my life changed.

I am from New Orleans, and in 2005 I had the terrify-ingly direct experience of Hurricane Katrina, a category-five storm. My family decided to seek shelter with mygrandfather at Baptist Memorial Hospital where he has anOBGYN practice. Upon arriving at the hospital we beganto unpack, and not knowing how long we would be there,began to make ourselves more comfortable. Since I had every belonging with me, I had to unpack and settle in to myroom of torture. With my father, mother, grandfather, oldersister, and a few of my grandfather’s nurses, I prepared forwhat would turn out to be a life-changing experience.

I honestly did not know where to begin. My father wasthe only one who knew that the city would never be same.So being thirteen and the materialistic girl that I was, Idecided to pack my entire wardrobe. I somehow fit everysingle piece of my clothing into two suitcases. Since I hadnever had the feeling of loss, the only thought I couldunderstand was how I had to show off how materialistic Iwas. When we arrived in the hospital, I was still focused on

my possessions and how I looked. I never thought that inthree days all of my priorities would change for the better.

After the storm passed over the city, my family and Iwent to look at our home. It was Monday afternoon andour house was completely intact. Dodging tree limbs andexcess water in the road, we found that the damage wasrelatively minor, nothing a few small repairs could not fix.When night fell, we decided to stay at my grandmother’shome. Thinking that the next day would be like any otherregular day, we stayed up late laughing and telling stories.

On Tuesday morning, I heard my father’s fast and loudfootsteps, not his usual groggy morning shuffle. When mymother came into my room to wake me, I looked into hereyes and saw a sense of worry typically reserved for crisissituations. This look was reserved for those nightmaresthat children my age wake up from crying, but my night-mare had just begun. After studying her worried face, mymother calmly told me, “Nina, Nina baby, we have to getup. The levees have broken, and we have to get out of thecity.” My sister and I gathered our belongings and went tothe car. We rushed to the hospital where we would pick upmy grandfather and leave town. Once we got there, werealized that he was convinced everything would be fine. Heinsisted that the hospital had food, running water, genera-tors, and a place to sleep. So we stayed.

By Wednesday, we were trapped in the hospital. Thegenerators had flooded since they were in the basement.Our food supply was now down to one meal a day servedin a Styrofoam cup. Fearful of what was happening outside,we locked ourselves in my grandfather’s office listening tothe droning noise of helicopters landing and taking off withpatients in critical condition. We also watched as lootersand addicts tried to get into the hospital for the suppliesand drugs that were scarce.

Desperation by Nina Farris

Jessica Foshee, Curled Ribbon 18

On Thursday, we had no running water or generatorsand only a half of a cup of food. The still, hot air thatpressed against our bodies made the seconds feel like hours.After realizing the only way to live was to leave the hospital,we decided that today was the day to get somewhere safe.We packed our necessities and consolidated our belongings.When we walked downstairs into the lobby, we were metwith the smell of death and desperate people begging forhelp. The people around me were desperate. They weredesperate for life. There was a moment when I looked intoa woman’s eyes and realized that the world we live in is notabout the accessories, it is about the simple things like love,forgiveness, and caring. The people here needed help.There were children who had not lived their lives yet, andthey knew that this was going to be their end.

As we reached the broken window that we had to climbthrough, we saw men and women writing social securityand credit card numbers on their bodies so if they diedthey could be identified. A boat carried us out of the hospi-tal and up a couple of blocks to dry land. There we piledinto a hardware van and were brought by a police officerto the interstate. At this point in our journey, we had nocertainty of what was going on, where we should go, or ifwe were safe. All we knew was how devastation felt andhow confusion could lead to desperation.

Then an angel appeared before my family. He wasdressed in green cargo pants and wearing a purple and goldLSU shirt. He came just to rescue us from this disaster. Thefour of us piled into his black Suburban, and he drove us toa fast-food restaurant in Baton Rouge for our first full mealin days. He then brought us to a relative’s house nearbywhere we lived for three months, sleeping on couches andan inflatable mattress. When we returned to our one-storyhouse in New Orleans, we found that two and half feet of

water had destroyed most of our belongings.I began to rethink my life. I still have everyone I love

with me. My most haunting memory is that of hundreds ofmen and women in the hospital who had nothing but hopeand the desire to wake up the next morning and haveeverything be okay.

Certainly I am not done learning, but part of me is gladthat I learned to evaluate my priorities. Today, I am the onewho will cherish friends, family, and memories. The onlything that we will leave this earth with is our memories. SoI will make them all with the ones I love. Overall, thisexperience makes me want to be someone better, workharder, and realize all of my potential. It has changed myperspective about my life and the way I choose to live it.

Kate Satimore, Pale Pink Rose19

Ole Miss roses are $40their violets are the same tooman I love Ole Miss overly priced itemsthat I do

“One thing that’s been consistent throughout my lifeis the images I draw from. The dark side of man, theglorious side of nature, and the destruction of both.”-John Alexander.

Glorious Destructionby Daniel Conrad

Angry little fish,Better on a dishCut out the teeth,They taste so rich.The dark side of me,The glorious side of youWhen you’re on my plateDestruction only comes when we meet

Inspired by Angry Little Fish, a painting by JohnAlexander, on exhibit, University Museum, fall 2011

Grandma’s Legacy by Chase Melch

Grandma’s cooking was the absolute bestHer soul is peacefully laid to rest.Her recipes remain in our culinary booksEnlightening the remaining family cooks

Eggplant, salmon, to focaccia breadShe gladly created anything we saidWe’d all sit and wait at the dinner tableWhile she checked baseball scores on cable

Thanks was given, then we began to eatGrandma, your presence was the best treat

Extra $20 for a Name by Author Bryant

Suman Ali, Above the Clouds 20

If everyone’s ocean is blue then why aren’t we allswimming together? What makes us swim together?Is it what we doubt, what we fear, what antagonizesus? Is your ocean blue like everyone else’s?

Everyone’s sky is blue. Some peoples’ sky has afew clouds or a bit of gray, maybe purple or red for arising or a setting. But everyone has the same colorskies at different times.

My sky is whatever color I want it to be. It isgreen, with brown and tan clouds. The lightning isneon pink. The sand is red and my ocean is purple.Why? I have been lost, troubled, confused trying tofind a blue sky and blue ocean.

You are born. Children’s lives are whatever colorthey want them to be. Then the child grows up andsomeone tells them their ocean has to be blue–broughtand let down to blunt practicality. Seeing the blue skythey feel defeated. Their any-colored lives are brought to a stop because, look, the sky is blue. Now wandering in this structured land, coping with what seems to be reality, they upsettingly pass on this literal information.

Their sky may look blue but something stirs inside.If they come to asking themselves why, it is only tofind out they do not know. A subconscious stir for anorange ocean, they feel it, but they can’t even imagineit or put it into words. Their boats float aimlessly withconvinced purpose. Yet they absorb rays of sun,

weather storms, and are among whales, sharks, andthings they don’t even know they don’t even know.

You can become obsessed with washing your boat.You can learn the best ways to keep it clean. Thinkingabout what could dirty it and then deciding on what-ever it may be will be worth the cleaning. Then youstop cleaning the dirt. That “negative” thing is thereason why we prosper. We realize the only bad thingabout it is thinking it is bad. Why? Because the otherunsure fish think it is so.

Realize we act out because of what scares us. Well,then where else is there to go? We have to come toembrace and prosper in the dirt. Loving, questioning,appreciating, and being what scares us.

I hope for everyone to discover what they feel, torealize why, and to ultimately find the color of theirocean and sky.

My Sky Your Sky by Jeffrey Farragut

Inspired by Walter Anderson’s Paintings

When I was a little girl, my father bought a sailboat. We cleaned and repainted the boat together, slickingwhite paint over the old name and coming up withpossible new names. “The Princess!” I shouted. Myfather laughed, politely declining my suggestion.

“How about ‘The Grace’?” he asked. Grace is mymiddle name, and he and my mother called me GracieGirl. I smiled, and thus the Sunday boating ritual wasborn.

My favorite thing was to sit at the very front of theboat as we glided through the bayou. My toes wouldskim the water, and as I close my eyes now, I can seethe cattails and feel the salty breeze on my face.

I am pondering the painting “Reflections in a Bull-rush Pond” as I write, noticing how it depicts the ripples in the water perfectly; I can see the way the waterseparated as the boat sailed through the bayou. Thewatercolor cattails look almost the same as the ones Iwould reach out to touch as the boat moved along.

Finally, we would reach the mouth of the bayou andexit into the ocean, passing buoys, channel markers,and crab traps. The destination was Horn Island, whichwas about an hour’s sail.

To a little girl this hour seemed like forever, butupon reaching the island, all time was forgotten. Thewater sparkled in the sun, and unlike in the bayou, mywater shoes were visible under the surface as I slid

my feet through the sand–a technique common to waterfolk wanting to avoid stingrays lurking about.

As I walk along in the gallery, the painting “HornIsland at Sunset” reminds me of the nights spent at theisland. My family and I would often camp out, andthe painted sunset looks just as I remember it. Thoughnowadays, not so many trees remain–a shame.

The light blue of the sand in the painting matchesthe color of the sand when the sun begins to sinkbehind the trees, as opposed to the blinding whiteduring the day. I loved to bury my feet in that coolblue sand and feel the grains in between my toes.Looking at the icy, aqua blue used to paint the sandmakes the memory of the sensation all the more cold.

I now have been in the museum for an hour and ahalf, walking from painting to painting, contemplatingeach one, and closing my eyes to relive a fond memory. Passersby come and go, but I remain–alone in themuseum and left to my thoughts. As I look around theroom I can feel the adoration for the grace of natureshared by two people generations apart.

Ashley Wellen, Rocky Beach21

The Grace by Katherine Baggett

Suman Ali, Hot Fries 22

The Trap by Ashley Wellen

Golf is a sport with many rules. In fact there areso many rules that even the most experienced golfersstill carry a rulebook in their bag. Ashley was a younggirl who did not even crack open the rulebook beforeher first tournament; she had better ways to spend hertime. However, the rulebook may have saved her fromembarrassment if she had only read through it.

Ashley was about eight when her dad took hergolfing for the first time. She had a great time whack-ing away at the ball, not caring if she missed but withthe goal in mind of getting the ball in the hole. Shehad fun at junior golf where her score did not matter,but her first golf tournament soon changed Ashley’smindset. Golf became another challenge. She did notknow many rules, but she knew one thing: her “luckyseven iron” would come to the rescue if all other clubsfailed. Nothing seemed to be going right the day of thegolf tournament, but Ashley just kept on going. Onehole she landed in a huge sand trap, something whichAshley had never encountered before. She swung, andher ball did not make it out of the trap. She rested herclub in the sand, swung again, but her ball was stilllying there. After about five more tries, she finally hitthe ball out. Ashley was golfing with her friend andeventual competitor, Megan Jakel, that day. Meganexplained to Ashley that resting a club head in the sand

was called grounding the club. A rule states that play-ers must take a penalty stroke if they ground their clubbefore hitting the ball in a sand trap. Each time Ashleyhad swung the club it had actually counted as twostrokes. Ashley never forgot the sand trap rule afterthat game. She ended up scoring an eighty-eight ononly nine holes. Par on most golf courses is thirty six. Needless to say, Ashley read the rulebook after that day.

23

I stood 5’4” gawking at my awkward stance in themirror. The mirror, its decorative butterflies, flowers,and bumblebees vandalized by a rogue twelve year oldtomboy, strongly resonated my total and complete lackof care in my appearance. I stood awkwardly becauseI couldn’t actually fit in the mirror even if I stood onthe complete opposite side of the room, but I didn’tcare. I never really spent a lot of time in that mirror. I knew what I looked like, so examining myself for hourslike my weird older sisters never tickled my fancy.

First and final self examination: ponytail (no hair inface), check; Disneyworld t-shirt (Animal Kingdom ofcourse), check; favorite Kelly green Umbros, check; Nike socks, check; Converse, always-ready for school.

At school the popular girls liked me because I took control in class projects and pegged the boys with thevarious objects they flirtatiously launched at the cutieswho donned lip gloss and clear jelly sandals. The nerdsliked me because I was easy to talk to and would duelwith them at lunch when the cafeteria wasn’t servingmy preference that day. The boys liked me because Iprovided real competition in P.E. races, and I could talkany teacher out of weekend homework. The people thatdidn’t fall into a certain elementary community likedme because I was one of them.

Life was routine: Wake up, brush teeth–Mom willyou put my hair in a ponytail?–no Mom, Idontwanna-

wearlipgloss, t-shirt, Umbros, Converse, school, friends,home, basketball, sleep. Life was simple. Life was good.

It was a Thursday. God sat me in the corner anddesignated me to playing Pokemon, despite the factthe cafeteria was serving cheeseburgers–my favorite.Everyone looked up at the kid coming through theketchup and pickle stained door. Who was this rebelwithout a cause walking into the cafeteria flyingsolo? He didn’t walk with his class? Where was histeacher? Did I care? Nope. He was sporting a Soonerst-shirt, cargo shorts, and the freshest Nike sneaks Ihad ever seen. A real god walking into my cafeteria,into my life. Out of all the lip glossed fools that didn’tknow how to put on their make-up quite right, all thenaturally beautiful quiet and probably musicallytalented girls, all the older girls that wore bras thatdidn’t have Barbie cheesing across their chests, helooked at me. Me, the fool with my extra “I don’tcare-ish” hairdo that day (Thursdays were P.E. days),the weirdo holding a card with a loud yellow Pikachuon the front, the nerd with Rolling Stones lyrics scrib-bled on my converses.

Jesus. Where was my mom with that lip glosswhen I needed her? Wait what? NEEDED my mom?NEEDED lipgloss? Mind: blown. I reached into mybackpack for some classic cherry Chapstick. That’dhave to do for now.

“Hey, is anyone sitting here?”“Seat’s all yours.” Oh God, this dude was too much

to handle. I was instantly head-over-heels.

What it Took by Jami Steen

Maria Dahmash, Flowers (watercolor and ink) 24

“Name’s Ryan. I just moved here from Oklahoma.”“That’s cool. I’ve been here all my life. Oh, and I’m

Jami.”“Well Jami, let’s socialize.” I let out a laugh, and the

rest is history. My life, all kidding aside, was changedforever.

When I woke up the next morning I established anew routine: I sat in front of my mirror, brushed thetangles out of my long blonde hair, and let the boardstraight locks roll off my shoulders. I opted for shortswith a zipper and pockets and superfluous things likethat. I chose a blue t-shirt, a t-shirt, yes, but a chosenone as opposed to whichever shirt was next in the pileof t-shirts in my drawers. I donned my Converses; noway was I ditching THOSE guys on the biggest dayof my life.

I walked into Mom’s room for approval. When she saw this new person, this girl, she almost wept. Shesuggested I pinned my hair back because “It’s a shameto hide a face like yours.” With that done, I asked Momfor some lip gloss, preferably nothing too obvious andsomething that tasted good. She knew which tube tochoose automatically, almost as if she had been wait-ing on me to ask.

That day at school, I asked Ryan to be my boyfriend– a little backwards, yes, but then again I never reallydid anything the way that everyone else did. I guessRyan dug the fact that I didn’t care, or maybe he dugthe fact that he made me care. Either way, he checkedyes on the bottom of that piece of notebook paper, andthat was more than satisfactory to me.

25

John never really thought about moving away fromhome. Things were neatly arranged into place for him.From birth to high school, he spent the entirety of his lifein that small, quaint suburb in Iowa. Now he was movingto New York City to live with his mom’s brother andattend a local university. The name of the university didn’tmatter–he didn’t care. His major didn’t matter, nor did hishome. His parents decided based on a combination offactors, and with the scholarships and the free rent (he’d bestaying with his uncle), New York was determined the bestoption.

His parents walked him through a dozen applications,places he can’t even remember now. For a school year theystudied intensely any available resources to better aid theirdecision. They examined hundreds of university reviews,teacher reviews, student reviews, newspaper articles, andnational rankings. Occasionally, John would be consultedby his parents on trivial matters from where he would wantto live or what he wanted to do. However, these sessionsonly frustrated his parents by John’s general disinterest.

Senior year concluded long after their college search,and John knew where he was going to college many monthsbefore other students even started to look. His parentsproudly purchased and placed the university’s logo on thecar, fridge, and any other blank templates itching to befilled. They filled their closets with various school hats,t-shirts, sweatpants, and other attire. Every niche of schoolgear was filled and it looked as if John was an alumnusbefore he even started his freshman year.

The day he left for the airport went smoothly. Hisbelongings had been packed days in advance, tightly out-fitted with everything he needed, from school books to nail

clippers. Before he left for his plane, he hugged his parents.“Good luck son. Work hard. Remember why you’re

going to college,” his dad stated mid-hug. “Don’t forget to call us when you arrive, honey,”

reminded his mom.John silently nodded to both mandates, and trotted off

to his flight. Before he stepped into the crowd of the line,he turned to give a final wave to his parents, but they hadwalked away. He sighed and turned back around to facehis new life, clutching a ticket and a bag in his hands.

John had never met his uncle, nor had he heard manystories. All he knew was that his uncle David was apharmacist–like both his parents–living in NYC. The livingarrangement worked well, considering the proximity of hisuncle’s apartment to the college and the fact John wasstudying Pharmacy–just like his parents.

After the flight, John took a cab to his uncle’s address.The uncomfortable plane ride in coach didn’t allow himmuch sleep, and he found the warm cab cozy enough todrift into a nap. He awoke to a rough hand shaking hisshoulder.

“Hey buddy. We’re here,” grunted the cabbie.John sleepily fumbled for his wallet and paid him.

Stepping onto the concrete next to the bags the cabbiealready brought outside, he stretched and gazed at his newneighborhood. It was surprisingly up-scale, with semi-newapartments nicely crammed into an organized row. Smallpatches of grass and trees decorated the sidewalks encir-cling the buildings. John picked up his bags and headed tohis uncle’s apartment. He approached the apartment andringed up apartment number 21. A short ten seconds later,he was greeted by a voice that he assumed to be his uncle:

“Hello, what can I do for ya?” asked the voice.“Uhhh. It’s me, John…” timidly replied John.“OHH JOHN! What a surprise! Come on up!” said his

Soap by Matthew Stein

26

enthused uncle.The front door buzzed and let him through, and John

climbed upstairs to reach room 21’s door. The door wasalready slightly open, so John cautiously crept inside,announcing his arrival:

“Hello…? Uncle Dave?” John broadcasted through thedark apartment.

Flipping a nearby light switch, John saw the now-illuminated apartment was filled with dozens of unmarkedboxes. Piles of soap were littered around, but despite thisclutter, the rooms seemed appropriately clean. Dropping his heavy bags and sidestepping boxes, John slowly treadedthe crowded hallway. Turning the corner on the first room,he was greeted by a huge figure charging at him full speed

“WOOO JOHN! What is up, my man??” shouted thelarge man, tackling and hurling him to the ground.

“WHAT THE HELL UNCLE DAVE!??,” John moaned,his body crushed by the weight and embrace of his uncle.

Uncle Dave pealed out in laughter, rolling off John ontothe floor. Stunned, John remained motionless on the groundrubbing his assaulted shoulder.

“What is wrong with you?!?” angrily interjected John,his plea muffled by his uncle’s obnoxious laughter.

“Hahaha, just having a little bit of fun, John,” Dave explained, grinning from ear to ear, “so, how was the flight?”

“Long,” grumbled John, climbing onto his feet. “What’swith all the soap and boxes?”

“Oh, you don’t know anything about me, do you?”asked Dave, still grinning.

“No… nothing at all,” John replied, feeling uneasy.What kind of nut-job am I staying with? John wondered.

“That’s okay, you’ll learn quick,” Dave proclaimed,and then with an enigmatic wink, “The soap is just some-thing I do on the side. I make it myself and sell it at thefarmer’s market.”

“Interesting…” droned John. He’s just another boringpharmacist, John thought.

“Yeah. Very. Now enough chatter, grab one of thosesmall soap boxes, and follow me, we’re going to be late,”directed Dave, hopping to his feet, grabbing his jacket anda soap box.

“Uh, shouldn’t I unpack my bags and get settled in first?”interjected John.

“Nope! Hurry up. Also, bring a sweatshirt,” said Dave,throwing John a soap box and walking toward the door.

“A sweatshirt? It’s 75 degrees outside. I think I’llsurvive,” laughed John, catching the box.

“Bring it,” ordered Dave, his tone much more seriousthis time.

“Uhh… okay,” replied John, scavenging a sweatshirtfrom his bags.

They left the apartment as quickly as John had come,hopped on Dave’s motorcycle parked on the street, andwithout hesitation, sped away. They drove for 15 minutesby many buildings, vacant and filled. They finally stoppedat a random burger joint.

“Its midnight, Dave, this place is closed,” complainedthe confused John, stating the obvious.

“I know, I know. Put on your sweatshirt now,” dictatedDave.

Tired and hungry, John complied, wanting to get what-ever they were doing over with. Putting on his sweatshirt,he followed his uncle to the dimly lit building. To John’ssurprise, Dave quickly whipped out a spray can, andearnestly converted the brick wall to his personal canvas.John watched with awe as he painted in big, ugly, redletters “ANIMALS SUFFER PAIN TOO”.

“What the fuck are you doing, Dave??? Are youcrazy?!?” whispered John, his voice shaking with nervousexcitement.

Brianna Gray, Blurry Graffiti Heart27

“Shut-up and hand me your soap,” laughed Dave,obviously enjoying the moment.

John slowly handed over his box in confusion, andwatched Dave quickly unwrap both boxes to reveal twomore bright red boxes, each with a fuse sticking out. Hegrinned and paused for a moment, as if admiring his work,and then took out a lighter.

“John, listen to me. I’m going to light this, and you’regoing to throw this as hard as you can through that window,then run like hell,” told Dave, seriously staring at John,“Ready?”

“What…?” John gulped, “You can’t be serious!”“Good enough answer,” laughed Dave, lighting one

fuse, then the other, and tossing one to John. “Oh shit!” hollered John, frantically stepping back.A rush of adrenalin flooded through John as he caught

the hefty piece of dynamite. He stared at the fuse andknew he had to get rid of this bomb fast. Where to get ridof it, he didn’t have much time to decide. John hurled theheavy explosive at the defenseless restaurant, shatteringthe glass as Dave threw in his afterwards. Alarms startedscreaming, and John followed Dave to his motorcycle,where they hurriedly hopped on. Speeding away from thebuilding, John shuddered as two large booms echoed insuccession. Turning around he fixed his gaze on the restau-rant consumed in flames and smoke.

John could hardly believe what he just witnessed–ormore accurately, what he just did. All he knew is he feltsomething pumping through his body that he has never feltbefore. Driving along the dark road, he heard his unclebellow against the wind:

“We are environmentalists!!!”The rest of the ride home was a blur for John. Immedi-

ately after that fateful throw, he entered a state of intro-spection. Dozens of questions raced through his mind:

What did I do? What am I doing? Did I really just do that?Why do I feel so alive? Who am I?

The last question stuck and took precedence above allothers. Who am I? He had no answer. For years he hadlittle ambition and direction in his life, but in just a fewhours he changed directions rather quickly.

He only had a hazy understanding on why they bombed that restaurant. John remembered Dave mentioning some-thing about animal abuse and pollution on the ride back tohis apartment. However, John was not yet forming anyconcrete opinions on the subject. John was enlightened fora very different reason that night. When Dave tossed himthat block of dynamite, John–not his parents, not his teach-ers, and not anybody else–made the choice to hurl it ashard as he could. He made the decision. This alone planteda seed inside of him–a burning desire for more. John couldfeel it was only the beginning.

Author’s note: This is only the first chapter of an incompletestory. John’s adventures have only just begun.

Autumn Smith, Watchful Presence 28

Speak, Wisdom by Matthew Fernandez

Ancient being now dimly audible upon the dry lands of today–Your voice is raspy, lifting only to coat the grass once more in faint dew.Give your final discourse imparted to you by the Grandfather, the Grandmother,And Greats of the dawns of yesterday that are forever whispering, howeverfaintly, to those Who remain with open earsWith open heartsThe keeper, the wind, spreads the seeds of your history upon thegrowing storms Within currents of today’s wrathful ocean.But, waning wisdom, do not linger in the shadows of the past–do not tarry into the once Open fields, now a woeful plain outstretched with mounds ofvomited steel.Sing upon the stilled silence–follow your path into theremains–give your presence, your Undying voice to those who still linger to listen.Find, dear Peace, your way back into the hearts of the people whoboldly stood and Dishonored your name.Swiftly, lovingly flow into the eyelet of hope that endures and lightthe darkened path of Tomorrow’s uncertain forthcoming.Bring us grace, and love, and understanding–mostly, understanding.

29

A young boy rode his father’s horse on a hot, summerevening. The boy was riding alone for the first time. Hewas nervous, as the horse was much bigger than himself.The sun was sinking slowly but surely, and the fatheryelled at the boy to take the horse back to the barn. Theboy pulled the reins to the left with confidence, but as thebarn came into view, his confidence was lost. The horsebegan to sprint very quickly. The boy felt himself losingcontrol and soon found the earth rising rapidly towards hisface. He stuck out his arms to catch himself, and heard asickening pop. His wrist dangled limply.

The father of the boy ran to the scene. As he grewcloser, and the boy’s cries grew louder, he noticed the limpwrist. A screen door slammed in the distance and twoolder people emerged from the house. The horse had foundits’ home, and was currently standing in the barn in animpatient sort of way, like it couldn’t wait to be rid of thesaddle which weighed it down. The boy hadn’t movedmuch, and was still clutching his arm rather tenderly.

“What did you do this time, son?”“It wasn’t my fault!” the boy cried between sobs.The boys’ grandparents arrived shortly to assess the

situation. The grandmother looked very distraught, buttook over immediately.

“Grab him, Doug and - CAREFUL! - bring him to thehouse. Go to tend to the horse Grandpa,” she forcefullyordered.

With Grandma in tow, and son in his arms, the fathermarched his still wailing son back up the hill towards the

house. The old bulldog Buck met them at the door with asomber look. He shuffled aside to make room for thegroup, and wandered back to his own house under the tree.The father gently placed his son on the edge of the diningroom table, and the grandma flipped the switch to spreadlight on the injury.

“Might be sprained,” the father said hopefully.Grandma did not reply.The boy’s cries had slightly lessened as a bag of ice

was placed ever so gently onto his wrist. Grandma haddealt with these types of injuries before. She quickly andcleverly made a make-shift splint to wrap around the dam-aged arm for when the swelling went down. She foundathletic tape to wrap it tightly and create a temporary cast.Over the course of a half an hour, the boys’ arm looked asthough he had been tended to by an expert nurse, whichhis grandmother was. Soon the grandfather returned with atired look on his face. After a brief explanation of the trou-ble he had to go through to calm the animal down, heasked how his grandson was.

“Is it broken?” he asked.“Could be,” Grandma replied. After a few Tylenol, and during the course of his

expert examination, the boy had grown silent. It still hurt,but if he held his arm just right, the pain could be slightlyreduced. He had never broken any bones before. This wasall new and foreign to him, but he liked the attention. Itwould be a good story after all.

The boy kept still that night in bed. He dared not tossor turn for fear of pain from his injury. As he lay in bedbefore his dreams took him, he thought about how angryhis mother would be tomorrow when she found out. He

Horse and the Boy by Kaleb Rowland

Jeffrey Farragut, Horizon 30

knew she would be livid. He knew she would yell. He wasscared, but tried not to dwell too long on the situation. Healso knew that he would have to ride that horse again,someday.

Soon he was awake again. He moved too quickly andpain from his wrist shocked and reminded him of the pre-vious day’s ordeals. He moved much more cautiously afterthat. The day seemed to crawl by ever so slowly.

As our Buick pulled up to the designated meeting area,he noticed his mother had not yet arrived. She soon pulledin though and parked her Toyota truck in the adjacent space.As the boy and his father got out of the car, the mother didthe same. With a look of shock and a shriek, she rushed tothe boy like an angry mother bird tending to her chick.

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM DOUG?!? HOWDID THIS HAPPEN? TELL ME AT ONCE!” exclaimedthe mom.

“He fell off my horse and landed wrong on his wrist.We did the best we could with what we had. He mightneed to go to the hospital now, though,” said the father in agruff manner.

With a few choice words and accusations, the mothergrabbed her son’s belongings and ushered him into hertiny, grey truck. The car ride was unbearable for theyoung, tired boy. The mother yelled and fussed continuallyuntil they had reached the hospital. After a very tediouswait, a kind, elderly doctor confirmed that the wrist wasactually broken. A cast would be needed to straighten thebone. He allowed the boy to pick which color the cast would be. The boy picked green, the mother’s favorite color.

The cast would be removed in six to eight weeksdepending on how his wrist healed. The boy was amazed

at how long he would have to wear the monstrosity, andeven more shocked at the fact that he could not get it wet.The cast was set, and with a few words of thanks the boyand the mother left.

Three months later, the boy sat on the same horse inthe same pasture. He had never been more scared in hislife. The father stood watch a few yards away, ready tojump to the rescue should anything go wrong. The boyhandled the horse tentatively at first. After a few minutesof slowly walking around the pasture, confidence flowedthrough him, and the horse began to trot. Soon it was gal-loping around the pasture at high speed; whizzing pastcows and trees. The boy felt exhilarated. As the sun sanklower in the cool sky, he turned the horse back towardshome. The boy could feel the horse grow excited andready. He did not let the horse control the situation thistime. He slowly guided the horse back to the stable. Hedismounted and jumped for joy.

31

I sat in the darkness of my room turned animal habitatand blankly stared into the incandescent light of the com-puter. “What can I do?” I pondered, “What can I writeabout? There must be someone in my life that has inspiredme. Do I really live my life so unattached from others thatI haven’t let anyone in?” I continued to stare into the light,at the empty space where a writing assignment that wasdue the next day should be. “Come on! I know that some-one has inspired me, has reinvented my world, and haschanged my life for the better. I know I couldn’t live with-out someone; now who is it!”

A text message shocked me out of reverie. “Hay, wannahang out?”

It was my best friend, Cayley. A thought skirted acrossmy mind like a water spider crossing a river. She hadn’talways been my best friend. In fact, I used to hate her. Ididn’t really know all that much about her, but I’m the kindof person who just assumes things about people. She was aJesus-loving, crumpet-eating, snooty-nosed freak who justcouldn’t get enough of talking about herself and her rela-tionship with God. I avoided her as if she were a leper. Wewere like the two faces of a penny, always in the sameplace, but never seeing the other. The only way we couldever be friends is if the heavens themselves brought ustogether. They did.

It happened at theatre camp on talent show day. No onehad actually come up with anything to do, yet everyone hadto perform. I played it safe and did a Monty Python skit,sophisticated yet simple. And then Cayley walked up tothe stage. The pale, florescent lights did nothing for hercomplexion. Her brown hair was boring, and her dress hungloosely on her body making her look fat. Then she cued upher music, Once on This Island. “Ugh,” I scoffed to one of

my friends, “This is going to suck.” And then she started. The walls I had built around her were pelted with every

sweet note. I no longer felt any animosity towards her. Herskin glowed in the soft light, her hair fell gracefully at hershoulders, not even Tim Gunn* could have styled her morebeautifully. When she sung the last note, I made it a pointto sprint out of my chair towards her. “I didn’t know youcould sing!” And then, a beautiful friendship began.

“No,” I procrastinated, “I have to finish this stupidwriting assignment. Sorry,” I texted my reply. I put onsome music to help inspire me. A show tune could be justthe muse I need, I thought to myself. I fiddled with myiPod and queued up the first showtune I could find. KissMe Too Fiercely, Hold Me Too Tight. The music swelledwhen Idina Menzel* started to sing with Fiyero. I wastransported me to another place, and then another place.

“I don’t want to go home,” I explained, as Cayley andI pulled into the drive way of my apartment complex. Sheagreed with my sentiment. So, instead of getting out of thecar, we hooked her iPod to the car radio and started jam-ming in the driveway. After around 15 minutes of dancemusic, “As Long as You’re Mine” from the musical Wickedcame on. We both grew solemn after the words took root.I’ve longed for a moment described in the song my entirelife. I’ve longed for a special someone to kiss me toofiercely and hold me too tight. I looked towards Cayleyand saw that, not only her face, but her soul matched mine.She asked why I was sad. In my melancholy, I couldn’tcomprehend what she said, but I felt the warmth in hervoice. She cared about me. She wanted me to feel safe. Iwanted to give the same to her. And then, I let out all ofmy tension.

I told her everything I had wanted to express since Iwas little. I explained how my parents didn’t understandhow I felt small and ugly, how nothing had ever matteredto me because I didn’t matter to the world. I don’t know

Snow White and the Bitchy Giant by Devren Bryant

Autumn Smith, Woman with Umbrella (drawing) 32

why I let loose. I usually just hold on to everything. Whoam I to decide that my angst matters more than the nextperson’s? But in that moment, she wasn’t just a person;she was a friend, my best friend. I hadn’t had a best friendsince I was in the 3rd grade.

“Well, if showtunes won’t help, what will? I’ve got tofinish this assignment tonight!” I furiously started typingrandom letters. I hoped that maybe my figures wouldinspire themselves. “Write, my pets! Write like the wind!”

“Oh goodness, the wind is real nippy today”“Well, maybe if you had on more than just underwear,”

Cayley retorted.It was Halloween, and Cayley and I were on our way to

block party, a Halloween party that was really just an excuseto parade around with no clothes on.

“Says the girl who looks like a slutty Snow White,” Iretaliated.

“I’m Alice from Alice in Wonderland!”“More like Alice in Slutty-Land!”Our friendship had evolved to the point where insults

were nothing more than different ways of saying “I loveyou.” We strolled up and down the crowded streets, amazedby the wondrous Drag Queens and moved to tears by thesweet melodies the DJs were spewing from their speakers.I was having the time of my life.

The air was heavy with fun, glitter and, smoke. Smoke…Cayley is asthmatic. I looked back expecting to see a brown-haired girl in a poofy, powder blue dress and stripper heelspassed out. She was still on her feet, but woozy. I went intomission mode. I had to get her away from the smoke intofresh air. I don’t know how many Drag Queens and half

naked men I knocked over that night, but Cayley’s safetycame first. When I finally got her to what I considered asafe haven, I looked back to make sure she hadn’t died. Shejust stared at me.

“You know, I was perfectly fine right…?”“Oh, really,” I mumbled. In my mind, she was dying,

but, then again, I have a very active imagination.“But, thank you for taking care of me.” She said as she

kissed me on the cheek. “Well, okay, but I really want to hang out today,” Cayley

responded. I sensed the let-down behind her words andbegan to think. Why is she so sad? It isn’t like I don’t seeher every day. Am I really that important to her? Is shereally that important to me?

“Just give me two seconds. I’ve just been inspired. This paper will be a cinch to write.” I set my phone down andtouched my fingers to the keys. An explosion of lettersmelded into words, and the words into sentences, and thesentences into paragraphs. I guess it’s true what they say–it’s hard to see the forest for the trees. In searching for theperfect person to write about, the person who had changedmy life for good, I forgotabout the person who meantthe most to me.

“Finished,” I said trium-phantly, “but it needs a title.”I thought about all the goodtimes we had. “How about theSnow White and the BitchyGiant?” I laughed and sentthe paper in.

*Timothy M. “Tim” Gunn is an American fashion consultant and television personality. He was on thefaculty of Parsons New School for Design from 1982 to 2007. He is well-known as on-air mentor todesigners on the reality television program Project Runway. (Wikipedia)

*Idina Kim Menzel is an American actress, singer and songwriter. She is widely known for originatingthe roles of Maureen in Rent and Elphaba in Wicked. (Wikipedia)

Leanna Tholl, After the Snow33

Time falls in patches of snow

And in raindrops that plummet downward

To fill the sea.

Fading as quick as a current,

Seething and forceful,

It runs a landscape’s length.

Seconds flying among the fowl

And hours running along as we scurry,

From place to place.

We go nowhere.

We Seek and Find Nothing by Matthew Fernandez

34

What do a widow, a creep, and a mental patient have in common? They all like sharing their problemswith me while I’m working.

The day began like any other. I woke to my alarmat 5 a.m. My hair was a nappy mess, I had huge, darkcircles under my eyes (so of course I wore my glasses),my uniform was wrinkled because I hadn’t washed itfrom the day before, and I was running late as usual.However, I flew down the interstate and surprisinglyarrived on time at the grocery store hell-hole where Iworked.

The first few hours of my shift passed as slow asmolasses. With an overwhelming scent of cleaner anda temperature cold enough to induce hypothermia, Istood around at my podium just waiting for businessto pick up. After three hours, around nine in themorning, a woman, probably in her late sixties withmedium length silvery-grey hair and very high-wastedpants, came through self-check. I was a self-checkattendant, meaning I was literally paid to stand up at apodium and be at the public’s beck and call wheneversomeone needed help.

Anyway, this lady came up to one of the self-checkmachines and started her transaction. At first, I thought “Hey, she’s not doing too shabby for someone of herage, but we’ll just see.” Not five minutes after havingthat thought, she pressed the dreaded “Assistance”button and the stupid pre-programmed machineannounced in the most annoying voice possible,

“Please stand by, help is on the way.”In my usual lackadaisical manner, I strolled over

to the woman calmly asking her to tell me what waswrong. I don’t remember exactly what she needed helpwith now, but I do remember it being a relatively easyproblem to fix. I told her what she needed to do tofurther avoid the problem, and then walked back to mystation to continue doodling. See, I had started drawingrandom lines and shapes and then filling in the remain-ing white space with tiny dots but just as soon as I gotback to my podium, I heard, “Please stand by, help ison the way.” I put my pen down, turned right aroundand walked back to the same woman asking again whathad happened. Again, the problem was a relativelyeasy one to fix, so I fixed it and went on my way.

Soon after this, she completed her transaction andwalked up to the podium, and at this point, I thoughtto myself, “Good God, what else could she possiblyneed?” Just as I turned around she began saying,“Sweetie, thank you so much for all of your help. Ireally appreciate it. I know I’m getting up there inyears but I sincerely appreciate you not treating melike an idiot.” “No problem,” I said, and nervouslylaughed a bit trying to indicate that it really was nobig deal, as the lady continued and said, “Reallysweetie, I mean it, I sincerely appreciate it, you know,my husband passed away recently and without him,I’ve been kind of a mess. I can’t think straight–it’salmost like I still rely on him to help me rememberthings and it’s just a hard habit to break.”

In an effort to not be rude, I replied with somethingreally corny to the effect of, “Well, I’m so sorry, that’s

My Forehead as a Welcome Mat by Christina Wurm

35

really hard, but it’ll get easier.” After that, she proceeded to talk about the deceased man for a good ten minutes,then hugged me, and finally left. Now I probably soundlike a horribly insensitive person, but the truth is, I was tired, cranky, and just trying to do my job. My jobdescription did not include free counseling. Little didI know what was in store for me the rest of the day.

Not an hour after the older woman left, a man thatrocked the grunge look, came into the store. His shirtwas stained and filled with holes. He was overweight,and he headed straight to the service desk. I was chat-ting with my friend who worked behind the counter.The man had come to make a Western Union moneytransfer. So he passed me to grab a form and he said,“I like your glasses.” “Thanks,” I said casually as Iwatched him return to the service counter to fill it out.“No, really, I like your glasses,” he persisted. Havingnot even finished filling out his name on the form, hebegan saying,” So you know, I just broke off a ninemonth engagement with my fiancé.” Partly out ofshock and lack of anything else to say, I responded,“Why?” and not as soon as the word left my mouth Iregretted asking.

At that moment, he quit filling out his form, leaned against the counter, intently looked at me and begandelving into the world’s most disturbing tale of theirengagement. He explained how he had tried to pleasehis beautiful, tall, blonde bride-to-be, by lending herhis car whenever she wanted, and how trouble beganwhen she totaled the car in an accident. He continuedby saying he even bought her another car after thatincident, with the only request that she not drive it

until he figured out the new insurance policy. Well,ignoring his wish completely, she took the car and gotinto another wreck and totaled that car too, only thistime with his son in the car. He couldn’t forgive that.He used that as a transition to tell my friend and mehow he had buried another one of his sons the yearbefore, and how he couldn’t be with someone whoput his other son in any kind of danger, because hecouldn’t stand to bury his other child.

He paused after telling us this, filled out a smallsection of his form, and then continued with the story.“When she got home, I sat her down to discuss whathad happened and how much it upset me and every-thing, and she didn’t seem to care as much as sheshould have. So I got upset and started yelling, andbefore I knew it that crazy B**** was trying to stabme with a kitchen knife.” He said it so plainly itscared me. “Look, here’s the scar,” he said as heshowed us the scar on his hand.

He took another eerie pause to fill out a couple morelines on his form. Now, here’s where I completely lost my cool. He looked up at me from the form and said,“You know, you sorta look like her, my fiancé….you’re tall like her, blonde like her, and sh*t, she hadglasses just like that too.” I couldn’t believe my ears. Ireminded him of her? Good God, and with that, myfriend saw how trapped I was in this uncomfortablesituation and came up with an excuse for me to walkaway. After hearing this man’s story, I admit I againfelt horrible for not taking interest in his problems,but I just couldn’t bring myself to sympathize for himwhen I was so creeped out. So I left for a short break

Keaton Cooke, Stones and Spray Paint 36

to process what had just happened.Once I returned from my much needed ten-minute

break, I saw that the man had left and so I continuedto doodle at my podium–this time little beach sceneswith palm trees and sunshine because the beach is myhappy place. I was oblivious to the world until thisyoung man approached me with a pack of cigarettes.He was tall and lean, with dark hair and scruff–notbad looking if I say so myself. But anyway, I checkedhim out, and not five minutes after the transaction hadbeen completed, he approached me a second timeasking if he could get a refund for the cigarettes.“You see,” he said, “I didn’t see those pillows overthere and I don’t have enough money to purchaseboth.” With a puzzled expression, I told him “Sure,”he could get his money back at the customer servicecenter. With nothing better to do, I watched him as hewalked over, picked out a pillow, then return to thecustomer service center to make the exchange. “Can Iask who the pillow is for?” I asked absentmindedly ashe was waiting. “It’s for this girl back at Green Brier.I think she’ll like it.” I gave him a blank stare to indi-cate to him that I had no idea what Green Brier was.“It’s a place for people who try to kill themselves,” hepaused, “That’s why I don’t have shoelaces…”

At that moment I could feel the shocked expressioncrossing my face, but I couldn’t do anything to stop it,and after a long silence between us, I finally musteredup enough gusto to say, “Oh, well, I think she’ll likethe pillow!!” He forced a quick, but sincere smile atme, then left.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about the events ofthat day, and I’ve come to realize that it’s no accidentwhy it stands out so vividly. I learned something–andthat’s no matter how bad I thought my day was going,from waking up at five in the morning, to having tostand up for eight hours straight, I never fully graspedjust how much worse other people’s lives could be.

I had been so self-centered I never even considered that the reason they were telling me their problems inthe first place was because they had no one else–andI think that hit me the hardest. Since that day, though,I can say that two things about me have changedsignificantly. One, I always take a sincere interest inothers’ well-being, and two, I never talk about myproblems to anyone for fear they will be used in amemoir like mine.

Matthew Fernandez, The Circles That Tell37

I Ask Only by Matthew Fernandez

Accept me.

I ask of you.

Bear my presence to you also

But change nothing.

Do not mold me in your readily sculpting hands,

I am already made.

I am in no need of revival

Grace, I hold-not given from you.

Nor stolen.

I do ask for acceptance.

I ask for love.

And you give it not.

I am made.

38

Southern Harp by Taylor Mitchell

Wires by Taylor Mitchell

You left me in the jaws of my mother’s house

Singing with the voice of a drowning organ

But you will always be my southern harp

That lulls the dark night to sleep

Jessica Foshee, Upward Bound

There is something broken in meI pull the skin off my bones every nightAnd slip the shadows on over my skeleton

To dance with the doors in your headThat sway as your father comes and goesAnd that slam when his knuckles turn white

When his face burns hot with stolen starsThat glow as their hands reach toward the skyWhere their father smolders in his deep sleep

The dead god of earth burns ever brighterTangled in wires that angels used to tie him downAnd covered in the ash of our aching hearts

39

As Christmas was approaching, I would be fillingup my wish list with everything I could think of, fromthe cutest purse to the most expensive electronics outthere. Knowing that my mom is a single parent of two,my sister, thirteen, and I, seventeen, would be askingher for everything; nevertheless, every Christmas ourgreen tree smothered with gold ornaments and whitelights would be filled with gifts with every singlething that we asked for, but this Christmas was differ-ent. As usual, I made a long list, and day after day Isaw my mom running in the house with bags. As thedays past I marked my calendar–seven more days,five, three, two, one–until Christmas.

On the night of Christmas Eve, we get to open uponly one present. When I looked under the tree, therewere still no gifts. So I thought to myself, well maybeMom is just going to put the gifts under the tree tonightwhile we’re sleeping so we can open them up all atonce in the morning. I rushed to bed that night so themorning would be here in no time.

As Christmas joy and happiness filled the air, Irushed to the corner of the living room where the treestood at its ground to find an empty tree with no pres-ents under it. I was so shocked and felt my heart sink.

“Mom, where are my gifts?!” I snapped.“I have a surprise for you and Alisha.” She said

calmly and smiled.

I was so excited again, thinking about all the things the surprise could be. Could it be a car? Or maybe wewere just going to pick someone up from the airport.Once I got in the car I saw all the bags of gifts sittingin the backseat.

“Mom, where are we going?”“You’ll see; it’s a surprise.” She repeated once more.I didn’t know what to feel. Should I be excited or

scared to find out what it was going to be? Glancingat the radio, 30 minutes had flown by. Our red 2010Chrysler Sebring car pulled up to a small, red-brickbuilding. It had a little sign that said “Temple NightShelter for the Homeless.” At this point, I was sopissed; I kept thinking to myself why are we here outof all places? As we got out of the car, mom told us toget the bags of gifts out of the backseat. I automati-cally knew just what she was thinking of as a surprise.She was going to give all of our presents away to thehomeless. I felt my stomach twisting and my throataching; I wanted to cry.

A lady who wore a bright red sweater with a whitescarf, and green slacks came out to greet us.

“Hey! Thanks for coming; I’m so glad that youdecided to come to donate gifts to the shelter,” shesaid with a warming smile on her face.

My jaw dropped, my stomach and throat achedeven more.

“Mom, are you serious? You’re giving all of our gifts to some people at the shelter?!” I said stubbornly.

“Yes, because kids like you are so ungrateful for

It’s Not Always About Giving by Di’Shaliek Wright

Jeffrey Farragut, Child at Play 40

the things that you already have.” Her voice wasgrowing louder. “You have a roof over your head, anda place to call your home. You have food and water,and most importantly you have your family. You don’tneed gifts to live each and every day. It’s not alwaysabout getting; it’s about giving. Stop being so selfish.”

I just stood in silence, shocked and surprised atthe words that had just flown into my ears. I couldfeel my throat aching once more; feeling like it wasgoing to explode. Then a stream of wetness flewdown my cheeks.

I strolled in the building carrying what seemed tobe everything I wanted. My feet stood still on thewooded floor inside the door. Being smothered withthe air that was so thin and plain, that carried sorrowand guilt, pain and anger, it took my breath away. Itfelt different than how it was outside where there wasthe joy of Christmas flowing in the air.

I walked into a big room where all the peoplewere waiting. There was a white table already set upin the front where we were to place all the gifts.Walking over, staring at all their faces, I began to feelbad and sorry for them. They didn’t have much, andthis is what they called their “home.”

“Alright, everyone!” a worker yelled. “This is thefamily that I mentioned before that is donating giftsand will be helping to make Christmas dinner tonightfor you all. So now everyone, please get ready toreceive you presents!”

We took all of the presents out of the bags and

began to hand them out. As soon as everyone receiveda present, they all started to tear the wrapping paperoff. My Ed Hardy sneakers were given to a woman,and my sisters’ American Girl doll was given to herdaughter. A black and white Baby Phat coat wasgiven to an elderly woman and my sisters’ new iPodtouch, that had dozens of music and games alreadyplaced on it, was handed to a teenager that was aboutmy age. I thought about crying again but not a singletear came running down my cheeks.

What I felt was this good feeling. As we werehanding out the gifts, the people were happy andsmiling. The air was becoming full again.

The school bell rang for the first time the secondsemester; everyone was talking about what theyreceived for Christmas.

“Hey, what didyou get forChristmas?” Mybest friend asked.

“Nothing, Ialready have every-thing need. I havemy family.”

Editor: Milly WestAssistant Editor: Cindy TranDesigner: Larry Agostinelli

Photo: Alyssa Miller,Reichstag (Germany)

Editor: Milly WestAssistant Editor: Cindy TranDesigner: Larry Agostinelli

Photo: Alyssa Miller,Reichstag (Germany)