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WWWWWingspaningspaningspaningspaningspan

Fall 2013Fall 2013Fall 2013Fall 2013Fall 2013

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Volume 13

Fall 2013 Jefferson State Community College

Editor: Sharon DeVaney-LovinguthProduction & Design: Greg McCallisterAssistant Editor: Helen Companion

Front Cover Art: Greg McCallisterBack Cover Art: Greg McCallister

Editorial PolicyWingspan is an annual literary and visual arts publication of Jefferson State Community College inBirmingham, Alabama. Its purpose is to act as a creative outlet for students, faculty, alumni andresidents of the surrounding area, thus encouraging and fostering an appreciation for the creativeprocess. The works included in this journal are reviewed and selected by a faculty advisor on thebasis of originality, graceful use of language, clarity of thought and the presence of an individualstyle. The nature of literature is not to advance a religious or political agenda, but to raise universalquestions about human nature and to engage reaction. Therefore, the experience of literature isbound to involve controversial subject matter at times. The college supports the students’ right to afree search for truth and its exposition. In pursuit of that goal, however, advisors reserve the right toedit submissions as is necessary for suitable print. Appropriateness of material is defined in part asthat which will “promote community and civic well being, provide insight into different culturalperspectives and expand the intellectual development of students.” The opinions expressed arethose of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of the college administration, faculty or staff.Letters to the editor or information on submission guidelines can be obtained by e-mail atlovinguth@jeffstateonline.com

All rights revert to the author/artist upon publication.

Volume 13Fall 2013

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Sigma Kappa Delta is the national English honor society for two-yearcolleges. The purpose of the society is to reward and encourage outstandingstudent achievement in English language and literature. Sigma Kappa Deltaprovides opportunities for advancing the study of language and literature,

developing writing skills, meeting scholars and writers, attendingconferences, submitting work for publication, and winning scholarships and

awards. Students also receive recognition of their membership in Sigma KappaDelta on their transcripts and at graduation by wearing honor cords.

As Wingspan Editor, I would like to thank the members of Sigma Kappa Delta English Honor Societywho served as assistant editors this year. Their editorial work brought a fresh, student perspective,and their excellent and thoughtful contributions shaped the magazine in new and important ways.

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PoetryPoetryPoetryPoetryPoetry

Anna Greer

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charred wind bristles ash branches, the leaves sing their charcoal song

the earth is grey tonight. too close to winter for words. evening,

the sky ignites, and by nightfall, the icy

earth is layered in grays: cobalt, steel, aluminum, charcoal. the moon casts

a shady light over the treesand icy ground emits

something colder than black.

listen: the wind leaves ash on the ground, as if someone

recently put out a fire. come morning, the groundwill steam from the heat:

look as it smolders. and the sun will rise, ignite

another fire. the sky will dancewith dancing flames, the clouds

will glow, and the ground will gleam red.

in a couple of months, it will rain. no more snow.

and the wind will pack up the ashes and scatter

them to another land, somewhere where winteris soon to start. the windwill sow its ashes there.

snow clouds will gather, long nights will smolder

the daylight. grey will smother the earth.

and what is here but summer now? thick, wet heat wraps around arms,

we desire somewhere to swim and a dry day to dry off.

we want the leaves to chaseour feet again, the wind to carry

the ashes back here so we can donour black leather and crave

another body to keep us warm.

-Helen Companion

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On the Anniversary of my Father’s Death

The red oak in my backyard is crackedfrom lightning. Kudzu twists

between the split trunk, clingingto charred edges. It’s evening and the sun

casts fire over the lake. From my porch,the leaves and purple flowers look like gauze

obscuring the view of the bloody water.

It’s been a year now and I still hear your voicein the pollen that forms a blanket over my car,

in the rain bouncing on the tin roof,in the cracked walnuts on my driveway.

Grass and rocks are a rough carpetas I walk to the lake, the cool

air wrapped around me like a sleeve.I sit on our dock, my legs like two small trout

in the water. In the sand below, I see a fishwashed on shore and a water-lily, petals stretched

for something it can’t reach.-Helen Companion

Daniel Senko

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OBJECTS.

I could never do so much,But see you as an |object|

Your volume is so apparent.You have a [surface tension]So strong against existence.

They buy you drinks;you never giving an inch.

(We used to sit at the edge of a lakeskipping pebbles against the water.)

Against this fabric|I can only view you as an object|I feel your mass on top of mineCreating a whole other entity.

You’re not giving an inch,but they plead wholeheartedly.

An object at rest stays at rest.

{Unless (acted) upon by an opposing force}”Entropy is constantly increasing.

[I] can’t help but see [you] as an object.An object at rest beginning in order,Slowly entering a more 0entropic0state; you shake and begin to move

Against existence, you can’t help,but give a singular inch

To all the forces acting on you.

(If only we could exist again at the edge)

Then [I] wouldn’t view you as an |object|any longer.

-Ulric Cowley

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OEDIPUS REGAINED:A RECONCILIATION.

Words wrecking our world;spit filled with anger fly from your lips.

We battle like war torn ships,likely to drown in the depths.

You hear, “Become the plastered planthat he so desires for you.”

Yet, There’s no need to reliveOedipus’ fate in such a way.As the warmth of spring canmelt away the snow coveredgrounds of white winter even

love; can arise betweensuch separate men.

Steady breath breaks down age oldbarriers between tradition and

progress. Anger no longerclouds the way in this new Dawn.

A fissure healed with thequiet light of understanding.

-Ulric Cowley

Daniel Senko

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FreedomA woman sits by an open windowShe sees the dark cold world for

what it is,

Lonely, scared, and hurt she cries.Silently weeping she can feel the

salty tears fall on cuts and bruises.

The wind beats at her just as she remembers being beaten once again.

Her Soul torn by the very existence of mankind and nature.

Outside the howling wind masks the cries from inside.

Screaming with primal rage, the woman slumps in the Slumber of death.

The wind dies and the womans’ Soul rises in the air.

FREE!

-DeAnna Haase

Greg McCallister

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Kintsukori

The light will falter,It will flicker and go out;

Your shadow will grow cold.

whispers call out to succumbto the blackness now numb.

Fear and Pain will fall away,The trumpeted cry of relief

Of a new world lit upWhen abjected Fates wail their defeat.

So know of the flames return,and the warmth within beckoning:

Courage! Thy will be doneNo more. Anew! The field glistens.

Believe in new days,And bright thoughts,And the absolution of

Sorrow’s ways

-Scot P. Langland

Quite Right

It was her back that I saw most,Sauntering away from me

Further and further until it was just shadow.Coast upon the air,Blow into the soul,

The void is no longer empty.It swirls and lifts us to fly.Blue within blues forget

All that is white.

Pour slowly out, thegrains and the dust,

only to leaveSpace and Breath

in one simplerite.

-Scot P. Langland

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Lab experiment

I burned down the labIt wasn’t my faultThe flame so enticingIn its grip I was caught

So alone there I stoodWith burner in handTo burn down the labYes, this was my plan

-Jason Leach

Writing while standing

Can’t sit stillSitting still is deathPacing is the only solaceStanding here writingWhat is there to do?What to ponderSo many different thingsToo much to contain in a seatYet not enough for a throne

-Jason Leach

weightlessness

I cannot help but love the night,Simply is the absence of light.

Fare thee well dark charity,Apollo rise mysteriously.Steed and flame captivate me;A sun brighter than all the best,To lead us away from our rest.

Know not why you cry so soonThe lamp not dead, burns anewScattered parts surround our Moon.

-Scot P. Langland

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“After Leaving the Kudzu Kingdom”

We were—at one time

pecan tree patriots,living in a kudzu kingdom.Our way of life was commonplace.Scattered neighbors on our harbors,while we floated on the river that was our driveway in heavy rain.Honeysuckle sweet, we danced to our own hummingbird beat.The sticks was our stomping ground.

We never talked about desires,never spoke of daydreamson stage,

stretched outsucking in applause like oxygen.We never talked about troubles,since we never acknowledge any hardships other than work.And we were happy,hidden behind tree trunks and foliage

—that means leaves and shrubs.(I never did remember not to use big words!)

Life was slow,(no need to rush things),

and there was no thought or need of leaving,but I dreamed,

while laying on cotton, brimstone hot.I dreamed of flying, of swinging,of jumping from trees to trains,walking sidewalks beneath skyscrapers.But you didn’t know this, or didn’t care,squashing these thoughts with obligations,and forcing fear upon a young mind.

We were—at one time

happy, or, perhaps, content,living in a misconception.Your way of life was lawbut I disobeyed when I met a warrior—emblazoned with emerald eyes and oranges protecting his heart.He taught my tongue to dance to the beat of honesty,but you heard the cry of war and burned all your flags of white.

-Tony Lovell

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We never talked about desires,never spoke of daydreamsin love

laid outsucking in ocean air on the coast of a lover.We never talked about thoughtssince we never acknowledged any hardships other than me.And you were happy,hidden behind stopped time—that is, in a shrine,(an ode to the life we all once lived.)

You don’t have any pictures of me on your wall.That bottled up boy,

with too curly hair on one side and too long eyelashes,That scared little boy

who sits framed on your wall, wearing a naive smile,is a ghost of high school past.

I don’t know him anymore.

I left him in that closetwhen you grabbed my hands and pulled me out.You didn’t know that’s where I was—had hoped I was swimming in heroin—a girlfriend bearing my child.But you chose to bury the memory of that boy

—toosince that dayin your kudzu kingdom

—LA REVOLUTION!I declared my freedom,and you don’t have any pictures of us on your wall,

—my husband and me.

My existence is a stain on your life,on the way others view you,as if I am the looking glass,shattered and scattered on your living room floor,that the world is looking through to your soul.

-Tony Lovell

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I assure you,I am not whining up here on my soapbox.We never talked before,not with one another,

only at faces—our words like flieshovering over the manure of the elephant in the room.You never taught me how to listen;perhaps you never knew how to yourself.Always waiting for your own troubles to subside.And I never asked to learn,never yearned for your ear, only your understanding,thinking maybe these daemons inside me,their screams clawing away at my head like white noise,could be washed away with the cleanse of your acceptance.

We never talk,so if I don’t pin these words to paper,hold them down while they writhe on my tongue,if I don’t spill them over strangers like milk,then these words will go unknown outside my head.

We never talked before,so why would we start now?If neither of us will listen, then why talk at all?

-Tony Lovell

Daniel Senko

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Happy New Year.

Another day another yearWill my heart and knees last is my greatest fear I have given my all to whom that I have talkedIf you only knew the miles I have walked So people hold all those you love nearAnd tell them “Happy New Year!”

-Greg McCallister

Skin

I am happy to be in my own skinIf you do not like what you see when you look at me, or if my looks offendThen the problem is yours, for me, I no longer have to apologize or defendI do not break, and I do not bendAfter all, it was basing my life off pleasing others that nearly brought me to an endI have recognized the error in my judgments since thenI do not have to be fake or pretendFrom this day forward, I have decided it is best for me not to try to blend inTherefore, if you cannot accept me for who I am then I am better off without you as a friend.

-Kenecia Russell

The Tower

Empty to full to emptyThe shimmer waxes and wanesSilhouettes glide idly pastTormenting without intent

Longing for eternal warmthLed to slaughter by idealsForever chained by moralsCataclysmic vision

Daedulus! I declareYour directions defective

- J.C. Patterson

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Greg McCallister

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Ode to My Dying Mother“Villanelle from a Daughter!”Inspired by Dylan Thomas’s “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”

It is not time for you to say goodnight,Hard as it may be to watch you decay;Please do not go I have to make this right.

It is stubborn that I am, you were right,Please sit up and annoy me as you have from day to dayIt is not time for you to say goodnight.

When I could not see you were the eyes that gave me sightHaving taken you for granted is this the price I must pay,Please do not go I have to make this right.

The next disagreement we have my tongue I’ll gladly bite,Surely I would listen to whatever it is you have to say,It is not time for you to say goodnight.

As I walked through darkness you were my light,Your smile as bright as a summer’s day,Please do not go I have to make this right.

As long as I can remember you have always been the type to put a fight,To GOD this solemn plea I pray.It is not time for you to say goodnight.Please do not go I have to make this right.

-Kenecia Russell

Drifting

Drifting down the old red mud dirt road, that lies loose between my toes.The suns sizzling waves tighten the dark tendrils that lay upon my glistened neck.Breathing in air so dry filled with dust. I know my lungs are red! Covered in that damn dirt I love somuch! I tried so hard to runaway, yet I come back to this place. No one’s here, there’s nothing around,but I’m never alone even though there’s not one face to be found. There’s peace here, except for mysoul, maybe that’s why I run through these damn hills of nothing but old red dirt road.

-El Wood

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Chronicle of the HoursHeadline

“Rigs to Stop”no potatoes, no tools, no freezers

no spuds to shuck groundno rumble of Russets

no roar of tumbling Idahosno shuttle to plates, to sour cream

all fruit groundedno starch to Uncle Ott

no starch to pregnant Marysno starch for castored babes

no starch to burping bama chicken shacksno tuberous tunes to blow

rigs shut down“Trucks Stop”

The First HoursRolling five then ten

drivers proudly sita great batallion swellingin rising fumes and heat

a blockade is onaxle to axle

chesty, hairy, haulingbucking, grinding, rigs abreast

a thousand miles and morean inching vast communion

in rising heathours lose themselves

rolling five then tenthe blockade is on

rigs abreastaxle to axle

bucking, grinding, rolling, inchinga thousand miles and more

BlockadeThe week of October 6, 2013 truckers enroute to destinations throughout the United States changed course according toplan diverting rigs towards Washington, D.C. A deliberate traffic slow down began as thousands of trucks converged onthe city. Forming long, slow-moving caravans, a ring of trucks enclosed the city. On October 11th amidst sporadicviolence, all trucks stopped, a great ring was closed, the blockade complete. The truckers came prepared if necessary tocordon Washington for days. Their object was to prevent all movement of traffic into and out of the city thereby immobi-lizing government and industry. Air traffic was halted by ground service vehicle drivers’ refusal to refuel planes. By theweek of October 13th the truck stoppage had spread to other parts of the country, and within a week government hadvirtually ceased most functions. The truckers felt victory was certain. On October 18th the President called on themilitary to break the cordon. Reluctant clashes ensued between militant truckers and the National Guard. The militarypenetrated the cordon and the blockade was broken.

-William T. Squires

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The Violent HoursThe creature shudders

a few good menstrike pain

cool bones breakviolence rules

trucks stoproads blocked

five thousand rigsa million tons stopped

the work is donetruckers raise rebellionWashington cordoned

convergence fixedthe knot tiedtrucks meet

Union Pacific faces Portlandthe circle closed

truckers east meet westhot and cold continuum broken

arrows fixedspears unshared

truckers risen alonein many numbers

at once always alonetogether one in many alonebound by pride and union

The Final HoursThe sun fakes a Sundayacross the grey beltwayhere and there it fades

in and out of red clay cutsthere rolls a slow caravan

with horns sounding long, loud, troubledthrough streets sounding

angry voices, subdued, sadtruckers laid low

burning rigs fallensons and fathers fallenpassing now to groundmy own heart pounds

hollow longing makes and empty sound

-William T. Squires

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ArtArtArtArtArt

Frank Sutherland

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Izzy Insane

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Greg McCallister

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Brandon Kimbrell

Brandon Kimbrell

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Brandon Kimbrell

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Izzy Insane

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Sonceria Tucker

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Izzy Insane

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PhotographyPhotographyPhotographyPhotographyPhotography

Anna Greer

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Greg McCallister

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Daniel Senko

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Daniel Senko

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Greg McCallister

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Greg McCallister

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Greg McCallister

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Greg McCallister

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Greg McCallister

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Greg McCallister

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Greg McCallister

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Greg McCallister

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Anna Greer

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Anna Greer

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Bonnie Bailey Self

Bonnie Bailey Self

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Bonnie Bailey Self

Bonnie Bailey Self

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FictionFictionFictionFictionFictionFairy Clock

Aisle twelve is a wall of color. Stacked neatly on either side are boxes in bright shades, each with theirown promises: all day dry, warming, cooling, intimacy. In the center of the aisle, sitting at eye level asif to stare at Jessi, are the pregnancy tests; blocks of blue and pink, each proclaiming to be moreaccurate than the last. She reaches out to grab the least expensive one, a single test with glaring plusand minus.“Clean up in Aisle three,” blares over the intercom.She turns the box over in her hand, once, twice. For a nearly empty box, it feels both heavier andflimsier than she expects. She puts it back, thinking that she needs to be sure, she should get two andafter all, the price difference is only a matter of cents. Results should always be verified, after all.

“Assistance in aisle seven.” “First Response,” she rolls the words over her tongue. That sounds good, knowing early. She choosesa box with a digital test and a gold ribbon plastered over the front, thinks to herself that it seemsappropriate to consider it a gift, after all it was given to her by someone else. She wonders for amoment if she can return it.

The walk to the front seems like a long one and hides the test in the crook of her arm withoutrealizing. The wait at the register feels infinite; the line that looks the shortest is currently occupied byan elderly woman searching the depths of her purse for exact change. She places the test on the belt,then turns it over, hoping the other side will be less obvious. It isn’t of course. The cashier slides itacross the scanner, as if skimming a cloud.

“What are you hoping for?” the cashier asks. She flips her blond hair over her shoulder.“Not really sure.” Jessi pretends to focus on the pin pad. “I just need to know.”

The cashier hands her the bag and Jessi pulls the box out and slips it in her purse, crosses the aisleand enters the bathroom. Grey stalls are lined against the back wall with a solitary sink opposite thedoor. She opens the door to the handicapped stall and jumps back when it squeaks at her. She thinksit sounds like a mouse and remembers the lace of the mouse’s tail as she dangled it over the cage ofher pet Python, Marie, when she was nine. Only Marie’s head was above the fake grass and it hung,levitating, waiting to strike. She waited too long to drop the mouse and the snake missed, curlingaround her hand, a black and yellow bracelet that she had to run under water to release.The stall is comfortingly barren; only a toilet, an oversized black toilet paper dispenser and a tinymetal box on the wall are her company. She pulls down her jeans and panties in one motion, letsthem fall in a heap on the floor and carefully opens the box: one flap, then the other, then pulls outthe white, foil wrapped bar. She takes a deep breath and the urine falls like a waterfall over the test.“Yes,” it says. She shakes the test again, stares to be sure. “Yes.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” she says to herself and drops the test in the metal box, thepaper crinkling in recognition. She pulls up her pants, places the other test in her purse and tossesthe box on top of the test, the flaps exposed from where the metal lid doesn’t close.

With the heater broken everything in the apartment is freezing. Jessi kicks her sandals offbeside the door and makes her way to the bedroom. Matt is already asleep, curled up tightly in awhite comforter they had bought when first rented the apartment. She slips her clothes off, lettingthem fall to the floor and places her purse on the dresser. Slowly, she crawls into bed, careful not towake him.

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“Missed you,” Matt says, his words half language and half drool. Still asleep, he rolls close to her,draping his arm over her naked body. She kisses him on the forehead, says she loves him. Lyingthere, head pressed against his chest, hair creating a fuzzy pillow around her face, she thinks toherself that it’ll be okay, we’ll be okay. She brushes her hand against his thigh and he twitches. Shecloses her eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to sleep.It was a cool spring day when they met and the unopened buds on the maple trees glittered in thesunlight, like snow. The park was busy, but Jessi found a corner near the basketball court and threw agreen blanket down on the grass, under a red oak. The shade from its wide branches surrounded herlike an embrace. She sat with her legs laid sideways and a little glimpse of her slender legs peekedfrom under her long black skirt. Her cardigan fluttered in the wind like wings and she admired thestitches on the hem, remembering each stitch as it fell off the needles. She pulled out her book, butjust as she started to read, she heard the bounce of a ball against the rim and “Booyah!” echoedacross the park. He was a tall guy, with brown hair that was matted with sweat over his brow andbeads of sweat that glinted like dew. He high-fived one of the other guys there and Jessi shook herhead, returning to her book.Immersed in stamen and petals, she didn’t notice he’d walked up to her.“Here,” he said “a pretty flower for the most beautiful woman in the park.” The line was so corny thatJessi had to laugh. Between his thumbs and forefinger he held a dandelion.“A dandelion as a pick-up line? That’s a first. They’re just weeds.” She pulled at the sleeve on hercardigan and remembered twisting the stitches to make the cables on the cuff.“We always called them ‘fairy clocks’.” H e leans down and picks up one that has already bloomedand is now covered in strands woven together like a soft sculpture. “After they’ve bloomed, you canmake a wish on them. Watch.” He brought the flower to his lips and gently blew, scattering the seeds.“Make a wish and every seed that falls will help it come true.”She was hooked. There were who appreciated flowers the way she as an aspiring botanist did. Theyspent hours talking that afternoon about their lives, their families and dreams. And at the end of theday, she forgot her book.One day, he told her had a surprise for her. He blindfolded her, sat her gently in the passenger’s seat,saying “Don’t peek!” The silk of his tie against her eyes and the faint smell of his skin lulled her to sleepand when the car stopped, he got out, opened the door and took her hand, gently leading her.“Watch your step,” he said as she stepped over a pile of rocks. It was fall and the crumbling leaveswere melting into the soil, giving the whole place a musty smell. The air was still, as if even the windwas waiting for this moment. “Sit here,” he said, and she sat on the blanket, eyes still obscured. Whenhe pulled the tie off her eyes, she was surrounded by flowers. Four dozen black magic roses held theblanket down, one on each corner and concentric circles of vases of lilies and peonies surroundedher, with baby’s breath and lilac buds scattered between. The air was sweet enough to take herbreath away and immediately in front of her was a rare ghost orchid, with him kneeling in front ofher. In the center of the orchid, she saw a tiny fleck of gold and the light reflected off the diamondnestled in there.“Will you marry me?”She said yes and they ate a dinner of apples and brie while talking about plans for the future—theRanch style house off Puget Sound they dreamed of and Matt wanted a Great Pyrenese named Bo.Jessi wasn’t sure about pets. And they never talked about children.

His snores vibrate in her ear and his breath covers her face like a muggy afternoon. A glimpseof light from a streetlamp highlights a photo she took at the Morrocan Rose Festival a year prior. Ared rose with pink veins is tightly closed, with just two petals emerging on either side. A baby wouldmake traveling impossible; she’d be stuck with the local flora she’d been watching her whole life. Sherolls over, first on her back, forcing his heavy arms off her and then on her other side, facing awayfrom him. He reaches out towards her to pull her close.

“It’s too hot,” Jessi says, and scoots to the edge of the bed, putting distance between them.

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The morning sun slips through the blinds, casting cream colored stripes over the black marble bar.Matt flips to the comics and stops on an old strip of Calvin and Hobbes, reprinted for posterity. EverySunday, his mom would walk to the gas station across the street from his home and bring back apaper. Together, they would read the strip over cereal, just like this morning. He’s bought a comicevery Sunday since his mom’s death; it keeps her memory alive. He smiles as Calvin attempts toconfront the monster under his bed, waking his father in the process.

The light gets brighter and too early. Outside, pine pollen coats everything in a haze of yellow.He reaches into Jessi’s purse for some Tylenol, knowing a headache is coming on and sees the preg-nancy test lying casually on top of her wallet and picks it up.

“What are you doing?” He turns and sees Jessi, hair matted to the side of her face and stillbarely awake.

“Just needed some medicine” he says and stuffs the test back in her purse. “I didn’t know youwere late?”

“It’s probably nothing.” She turns her ring, so the diamond faces her palm. “Probably just thestress from that new hybrid we’ve been working on.” She isn’t ready to tell him yet; still wants sometime to process it herself. He folds the paper up, puts it on the table and walks over to give her a kiss.

“Let’s take it together!” He reaches for her hand, trying to stay calm. “And either way, you knowI’m here for you.”

“That’s okay, I’ll take it later.” Jessi says and grabs her purse with her free hand. “I need to go fora run anyway.” But when she looks at him, she sees the softness in his eyes and the comic on thetable. He says its okay, but drops her hand and she feels guilty. “Tell you what, we’ll do it when I getback.” He hugs her and kisses her on the forehead and she changes into a pair of sweats and leaves.And just before she gets back, she stops at the corner store to use the restroom, hoping that whenshe takes the test, there won’t be enough for a result.

At home, the bathroom is lit up in corals and creams, soft colors that seem too much like a nursery.Outside the bathroom door, she can hear Matt pacing and she can’t decide if he’s nervous or excited.The blinking hourglass on the display seems infinite. “What’s it say” he says, his words bouncingsharply against the door. She hopes for a different result, hopes this time it will say negative, just togive her some time to think. “Yes,” the test says, but she waits a few moments more before openingthe door. Matt appears to be bouncing and reminds her of a puppy or a kid on Christmas—no con-trol. Without a word, she hands him the test.

“I’m going to be a father!” He jumps up and down and gives her a big hug. “We’re going to beparents!” He picks her up, spins her around and she feels like she’s on a roller coaster that won’t stop.“We should celebrate! I’m going to be a Daddy.”

She smiles, says she needs a shower first and he agrees. The water is like rain and she wishes itwould wash her away, to take root in some distant place. When she comes back out, he’s in the sparebedroom, muttering about crib placement and colors.

Outside of the car, the world is a blur. Jessi watches as the clover and thistle in the median mixes likean impressionist painting. On the side of the road, she sees an abandoned Sportsman RV hitched tothe back of a beige Chevy truck. She remembers her father packing his clothes neatly into boxes inthe back of an RV just like it after their divorce, as the only commitment he ever made crumbled. “I’mjust going for a drive,” he said. “I’ll be back before your birthday.” He wasn’t, of course. Two days afterher twelve birthday, Jessi had gotten the news from a teacher that his RV had been found in the river,her father still inside. “We need to start talking about names,” Matt says, the pitch of his voice growing with each word, “Ilike Irene for a girl—after my grandmother, how about you? But, whatever we choose, she’ll carry it

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with her for the rest of her life.”The rest of her life, Jessi thinks. For the rest of my life, it’ll tie me to Matt. For the rest of my life. Forev-er. “I can’t believe you’re so excited. You never mentioned wanting to be a father.” Jessi tenses herbody, as if bracing herself to strike, “Hell, we don’t even know if it will survive. The chance it’s notviable is still well over 20%.” Already, she thought, it’s taking over my life. Matt hated to travel; hismother had lived only a few miles down the road. He’d never been anywhere interesting in his life.He jumps back, startled. “What’s wrong, Jessi. I thought you were excited?”She tugs at her sleeve, the holes in the lace revealing the skin underneath. “That’s you. I don’t knowwhat to feel.”“It’s okay, whatever happens we’ll do it together. I’ll always be here for you, you know that.” He turnsaway from the road for a moment. In the distance, a river peeks over the horizon.Always. Forever. Those words again. Could she stay with him forever?“I just don’t know if I’m in love with you. “For a moment, the only sounds in the car are the wheels grinding against the pavement. Outside, thegrass in the median is high and Jessi wishes she could curl up in the grass and disappear like a snake.Matt clenches his fist against the wheel and pulls off a nearby exit.“Do you want to be?” Jessi looks at him. His eyes are intently focused on the road, as if avoiding her.The car comes to a stop.She tugs at her sleeve again and then pulls her ring off her finger and puts it back. “I guess.” He takes a deep breath and reaches for her hand. “Then I’ll just have to make you fall in love with meagain.”“I don’t know, Matt. I just don’t think this is going to work.” She pulls her hand away. His featurescrumble like a ruin falling to pieces as he chokes back tears. She reaches out for the handle on thedoor. “I’m sorry, babe. I think maybe I just need some time to think. I’m going for a walk.” His handbrushes her side as she steps out.

The humidity is stifling and Jessi walks until she no longer knows where she is. She sits by theside of the road and notices a dandelion, fluffy and white. She grasps it between her fingers, takes adeep breath and blows the seeds, not really sure what to wish for.

Helen Companion

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Fear

Fear the unknown. Fear my future. Fear the consequences of my actions from years ago. I fear what Icannot change and I fear what I do not understand. To conquer this I have to look within myself forstrength. What is inside me? When I do this all I feel is God. The God of my understanding fills me withcourage and strength and love. So why do I fear? I fear because I do not fully trust my God at all times.I trust him when things are going right in my life, but when something happens that I do not under-stand or like I question. To question is human, but what is it called when you question God? Agnosticis what most would call it but it’s deeper than a label. I label things I can place into categories. Icannot place my feelings and ideas on God into set categories, they run together and collide andform new opinions after my experiences. I do not need a clear cut answer, no black and white. It isnot that simple for me. These ideas and feelings come from my upbringing, from my experiences,from the times that have me question who I am and what type of person I will become. All I need isfaith. To me faith has me believe in the unknown. So that when I do fear, the mystery of the world, Ican let go of my fears. I can give them away. What will happen to these uncovered fears? I know whathappens to them. They are taken away and seem but an afterthought of the momentous entitiesthey once were. Is it that simple? Do I question once more, or do I let go of these questions and putfaith into practice. I choose faith. It is a choice I am entitled as is everyone. I will let go of these ques-tions and believe that I will not ever give these questions logical answers. There is not an answer tothem. They are only theories and feelings. Theories and feelings are not fact and neither is faith.Choosing faith is choosing to let go of reason and of fear and accepting what will, or Gods will as I callit.

-Cassidy Dillingham

Marthalena Alsbrooks

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Desperate

My heart was pumping and adrenaline was rushing through my veins. As I was speeding off, Ilooked in the rear-view mirror at that stupid yuppie I had left behind. I looked to the left and noticeda middle-aged woman on her phone. She was looking right at me with a worried look on her face. Istepped on the gas to get out of there.

I needed some money to pay back my dealer who fronted me and ounce of dank and an 8-ball. Lately, he’s been getting angry because I haven’t been paying him back on time. The other nightI messed up. I went to the beach to party with the spring breakers, met some hot chicks, and blew therest of my supply.

I’ve been up since then. I smoked my last joint this morning to help out with the crash. I justneeded to get out of the neighborhood, pick up some other things, and go to the pawn shop. Then Ican get enough money to pay back my dealer, pop some xanies and go to sleep.

My heart was beating so fast; I was driving like a lunatic. Then I saw the flashing lights behindme. I didn’t know whether I was being pulled over for speeding or if that bitch had called the cops onme. I reached for the roach I had stashed in my ashtray and swallowed it. I took some deep breathsand pulled over.

“Why are you so nervous?”“I just don’t want a speeding ticket,” my voice cracked. I had tried my best to sound calm.“You look like you’re up to no good. Why don’t you step outside the vehicle, and let me look

around. You don’t have anything to hide, do you?”I stepped out of my car. I was watching in terror as the police officer searched my Seville. I was

trying to think of excuses for anything he might find. He found some seeds on the floor, but we bothknow he can’t do anything about that. He finds the lever for the trunk and pops it open. He looked inthe trunk at the suitcase and smiled.

“You’ve got drugs in here, boy?”“No, it’s a family heirloom,” I remembered.We were both in anticipation to see what was inside the trunk. I stepped forward and craned

my head to get a better look. The cop flipped the latches and opened the suitcase. There was animmediate stench wafting out through the hot, afternoon air. The police officer’s face turned white. Istepped closer to get a better view of the mangled horror in my trunk. I was in shock. My heartdropped, my already exhausted brain quit working. How am I going to get out of this?

-Kaitlyn Lee

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“The Criterion Paradox”

(Excerpts from the Story)

Time merely meandered on. The world spun through Space. Mass slowly wound itself together togenerate more mass. Energy lit up all of existence, and Life pooled all of this together. In instances allacross the Universe, there were places and times where the veil of all these things could be lifted. Inone particular galaxy, closer to the center of the Universe than most, there were over two hundredbillion stars alone. In this galaxy there happened to be almost sixty billion planets spinning aboutold, dwarfed stars. Some of these planets spiraled through space on a perfect enough orbit to retainenough light, energy, and gravity to incubate these pools of life. One such rock in this galaxy wasknown by its sentient inhabitants as Earth. These life forms called themselves homosapiens andreasoned that this spinning, massive sphere was their home. The Earth, being of sound body, fosteredand nurtured all varieties of living organisms on one simple condition – Time would return all ofthem back to where they came. Time rose above all of this with an exacting glee. Homosapiens found this to be particularly disappointing. All this development and awarenesshad been gifted to them, only to be taken away once they gathered how to realize it. They were onlyallowed a minute fraction of Life before Time ground their matter back into the Earth. They called thisa ‘lifespan.’ This perceivable duration was seen as an unfortunate limitation. As this world grew, so didits children. They began to create worlds within worlds and name such concepts as ‘humanity’ and‘society.’ The homosapiens became ‘humans’ who lived in ‘civilized societies.’ Time meandered on,unconcerned. None of these worlds or words could stop him. After tens of thousands of years, Man-kind eventually began to realize how truly infinitesimal it really was. They began to wake up.. . . one last step towards the door and then all of the sudden – it hissed open. Light like none of themhad ever experienced before broke the blackness of the stone stairwell. Each one of them stumbledup, through the entranceway. What they saw was impossible.

The Universe lay before them. A million billion galaxies whirling without weight, innumerableamounts of burning stars borne back ceaselessly throughout infinite Space. All of time was beforethem. The beginning, end, and all of possible existence prevailing all at once was what the strange,old man had wanted them to find. Nothing had meaning in front of something so whole. The threestrangers had emerged onto a plateau apart from anything that they had left behind and unlikeanything that was imaginable before. They were home. Time merely meandered on.

-Scot P. Langlan

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Vigilante

The first time I heard “Sympathy for the Devil” by The Rolling Stones , We were driving to the ridge. Weboth knew what we would find up there, or rather, who. I was in the passenger seat, loading my .44one bullet at a time until the cylinder was full. I looked left at my accomplice, his pistol sitting on hislap, a steely expression on his face.

“How much farther?” I asked. To which he replied, “Not far.” We rode in silence for a few min-utes until we came upon a rod seldom traveled by walkers or joggers, and more commonly frequent-ed by gangsters and criminals. We parked the car and got out, concealing our weapons. As wemarched toward the ridge, I could still hear the lyrics “Pleased to meet you, hope you guessed myname, but what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game.”A light fog set in as we neared the ridge. “Safeties off,” I said drawing my pistol from my jacket anddonning my mask. Up ahead, we saw a couple of figures in the fog. We recognized them easily; theywere low raking mobster grunts, the scum of the earth really. We slowed our advance as a third manapproached them, spotting us.Perplexed by our appearance, he asked “Who the hell are you supposed to be?” I had to fight the urgeto grin as I heard the lyrics to the song again. “Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name, butwhat’s puzzling you is the nature of my game.” He looked dumbfounded by my grin as I drew myresolver.Wide eyed and alert, the thug fumbled with his jacket in an attempt to draw his weapon. His eyesleveled with the barrel of my gun , a thousand regrets running through his mind as he realized hewas about to die. As my finger pressed harder against the trigger, he tried to voice his astonishment.“Holy shi-“, the roar of my gun cut him short.The other two goons span around, a similar look of shock on their faces. As if on cue, my partner firedhis pistol twice, the shots piercing the chest of one of the thugs, and wounding the other’s knee. Witha yell, he toppled over, clutching his leg “Son of a bitch shot me!” Scoffing, my partner leaned overand told him, “Stop crying, you’re in better shape than them,” as he motioned to the two men we’djust killed. I leaned in and picked him up by the collar of his shirt and shoved him away. He stumbledand cursed, struggling to keep his balance as I said to him with a grin “Run along now, go get yourfriends.” And so he went, crookedly into the fog, shouting for the aid of his remaining comrades. Iwasn’t listening to him, I was humming aloud “Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name, butwhat’s puzzling you is the nature of my game.”“Time for the final act.” My partner said as he wandered off the beaten path to the left of me, takingcover behind some small foliage. I took off my mask and laid down perpendicular to the bodies we’dmade, staying deathly still as I heard footsteps approaching in the fog. “Where?! You said they wereright fuckin- here, waiting for you, so where are they no-,” The shotgun toting braggart slumped overwith an audible thud, a noise unheard over my gun. I raised myself up to a sitting position andwatched as the other two new idiots failed to kill the reanimated corpse of their attacker, insteadbeing dropped by a flurry of successive shots from the bushes to their left. Down they fell and all whoremained was our returning victim, the wounded one.A look of utter defeat was upon his face, he didn’t even scramble to pick one of the dropped guns, hejust fell over looking at me. I moved over to him and leaned down to his face, mere inches away fromhim, grinning wildly. As he stared at my unmasked face, he asked me, “What the hell are you?” Nearlycackling with laughter, I leveled my gun to his heart and sang. “Pleased to meet you! Hope you guessmy name! But what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game! Isn’t it?!” I fired.

-Tyler Townsend

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NonfictionNonfictionNonfictionNonfictionNonfiction “Why do we love the movies?”

Somewhere in my parent’s house there are pictures of me a child. A little boy looks out into thecamera’s lens caught in a moment of wonder and perhaps of surprise. That child, I know and as Iregard him, is me. We are one in the same across the gulf of time. He hasn’t discovered the world yet,the joy and the disappointment that life has in store for him. He has yet to discover the things that Iknow. He is there as a marker for me, a moment captured forever in time.

We can all regard our photographs in this way. I think the movies do the same thing. They are awindow into the attitudes of personalities of times and people who are long gone, a record of whathas been and how they felt. The movies are well over a century old and we have now passed into atime when most of the living population doesn’t remember a time before the movies.

Movies are the most approachable of all the mass arts and most emotionally engaging. Art, music,theater, literature, those all have their merits, but movies encompass elements of all those arts,sometimes at the same time. We can get a visual, an auditory and an emotional pull from a moviethat we can’t get from another medium. They work on our brains like nothing else. Plus, they bringabout community like nothing else. There’s something magical about seeing a movie in a space withas many people as possible.

From my vantage point, the movies are a picture window onto a world that never existed. Theypresent a visual time-stamp of attitudes and ideas of a time long gone, never to be retrieved. You cancomplain about the racism of The Birth of a Nation with its positive portrayal of the Ku Klux Klan, butwhat you cannot deny is how invaluable it is historically. Right or wrong, It speaks to attitudes andfeelings that a lot of moviegoers had at the time.Movies do that, they record for all time the moments in history. There, on the screen, is a visualrecord of a moment captured in time for future generations to see. Look at the classic It’s a Wonder-ful Life, and reflect that we are looking at a moment captured by the camera in 1946, only a few yearsbefore most of us were born. That movie, that glorious American classic, captures forever a time, amood, an attitude about America that has passed us by.

All movies, in a way, do that. Like a moving photograph they capture people and events that are longgone. Watch an old newsreel sometime, maybe from the 30s or 40s and you will see people passingin and out of the frame who were alive then, now most likely dead, captured forever within the tinyscope of the camera’s lens. You can recreate the Hindenburg with special effects, and you can tellyour grandchildren stories about it, but we have it on film for the entire world to see, a terrible eventcaptured on film that took place generations before many of us were even born.Movies have been around now for well over 100 years and it is pretty good bet they’ll be around foranother century, maybe more. There’s just nothing like it. Nothing else has quite the same impact.Dick Clark said the “music is the soundtrack of our lives”, meaning that we can be taken mentally to adifferent point in our lives just by revisiting them. Movies do the same thing. We remember wherewe were and who we were with when we experienced the great movies. They’re always there andhopefully they always will be.

-Jerry Roberts.

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“’Gone With the Wind’: Fact, Fiction, Feminism, and The Elephant in the Room.”

“Gone With the Wind” represents a vision of The Old South, not through factual history, but throughthe romanticism from which great stories are born. Nearly 75 years after its initial release, the movieis still loved and beloved, offering a portrait of a stubborn woman’s sexual adventures backed up by awar whose sad legacy remains with us even today.

Many different people see this film in many different ways and yet the balance between fact andfiction is tricky. Here is a story that tries to deal with a romantic story of lovers caught up in the mostcrucial moment of America’s history. Yet, it is a chapter of history that has to be softened up to fit theromance. The movie propels forward its feminist message while subduing the larger issue for whichThe Civil War was fought in the first place.

From the outset, it might seem to just a simple romantic adventure about a stubborn woman’s at-tempts to find her own measure of sexual freedom, but there is something deeper. The backdrop of“Gone With the Wind” is a war that completely restructured the American landscape and createdsocial legacies that we, in the 21st century are still dealing with. At its center is a character who re-veals the nature of being able adapt to the enormous changes that would follow.

Scarlett O’Hara, in her own way, represents the future. When the war ended, the rigid tradition of TheOld South would die away as old traditions and the southern economy were essentially destroyed bythe war and by the passage of The Thirteen Amendment abolishing slavery. The new social stratawould present southern Americans with the information that they could either adapt or die. Scarlett,even before the war, won’t be pinned down by that tradition. She is the antithesis of the world inwhich she exists. She is stubborn, independent, man-hungry and pursues a man, Ashley Wilkes, forno other reason than that he is promised to someone else.

Scarlett was ahead of her time. She is more aggressively sexual than the social order of even the1930s might have allowed. She marries to keep from being an old maid, and then pursues one manwhile resisting the advances of another. She turns away the marriage bed for fear of losing her figureto childbirth. She sees what she wants and takes it; she is keen but not perceptive. If she had been atall perceptive then she might have seen that the roguish Rhett Butler, whom she resists, is almost herexact equal. He is no gentlemen, he visits Miss Watling’s house of ill-repute and openly admits thathe runs blockade only for profit. Yes, they are perfect for one another and the reason we are sowilling to fall into their romantic struggle is because we know that their attitudes will be the socialnorm, set in place in the years after the Civil War. Morality and the social rigors will begin to soften asthe world turns rapidly into the 20th century.

What is most unexpected is the way in which Scarlett casts off the role of southern lady and beginstoiling in the dirt to save the family farm. Her sisters complain about callused hands and sore backsbut if you step back and compare Scarlett with the other women in the movie, you will see a womanthat will survive once the war has ended because she has learned how to face it head on. She is asurvivor who has learned how to scheme and manipulate to get what she wants. In a way, her pas-sion in life is paved by the risky pursuit of handsome Ashley Wilkes, not because she loves him but byvirtue of the fact that she can’t have him.

Strangely enough, it takes a man to make Scarlett so fierce. When we first meet her, she’s sitting onthe porch at Tara, her face bright and cheery in the Georgia sun. She is surrounded by a flock ofpotential suitors. This would be the position she would seek to find again in life, the option of havingher pick of the man she wants even when he belongs to someone else.

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As fiction, “Gone With the Wind” is just about perfect, setting a fictional narrative atop history in a waythat doesn’t trample it. Yet, it does this in a romanticized, not a realistic way. Scarlett provides thenarrative and the entire business of the war is seen through her eyes. There are no battles to be seen.We only hear the news second hand. The reality of those battles arrive when wounded soldiers areflooded into town in such vast numbers that the streets are lined with wounded and the dead.

That point of view allows us to see Scarlett grow over the course of the movie, from winsome south-ern belle, to frustrated widow, to a woman who rises from the ashes of the war, determined to neverbe hungry again. After that lies her transformation to revolutionary as she determines to return Tarato its former glory by working the field herself. By the time she arrives back to Tara to find it plun-dered by Yankees, we know that Scarlett’s stubbornness will take hold and she won’t give up until shegets what she wants. We know she will prevail even when others give up in distress.

In this sense, Scarlett O’Hara is less a lady of that era then a woman of the early 20th century, an heir tothe suffrage movement, the jazz age and the flapper era, an age that gave women a great deal morefreedom even while they still couldn’t vote. Late in the film, when Scarlett is forced to work her ownfields, she represents the kind of woman that would go to work in factories during World War II. Atthe time (this was 1939) America hadn’t entered the war, so in that way she was ahead of even thefilm itself.

That “Gone With the Wind” allows such a progressive feminist story is impressive. Yet, one couldargue that the film manages to avoid the elephant in the room. The movie deals with slavery simplyby not dealing with slavery. We know that the war was about the struggle to free the slaves, but itremains at the outer edges of the film. In seeming to avoid the horror of slavery, the movie is aproduct of its time. In the 1930s segregation was still in full force around the south. The book hadbeen part of a long series of literary works known as “Anti-Tom Literature”, books that came after thefire and devastating reality of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” that attempted todownplay the harsh reality of slavery by focusing on the good-hearted white slave owners whilesectioning off the slaves into supporting roles in which they were portrayed as docile and apparentlyhappy. In Mitchell’s book, following Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, Scarlett regards the slavesin internal monologue, “There were qualities of loyalty and tirelessness and love in them that nostrain could break, no money could buy.”

The issue of slavery has always been such a touchy issue (now more than ever) that most films avoidit. Note that most films about The Civil War take place from the point of view of The Union so as toavoid the issue of fighting in favor of keeping slavery alive. “Gone With the Wind” follows the Anti-Tom ideal by dealing with the slaves only very briefly. The male slaves are seen very briefly while twofemale house servants, Mammy and Prissy, supply key supporting roles – again holding up the film’sfeminist slant. Mammy (Oscar winner Hattie McDaniel) is a mother figure; always the conscience overScarlett’s shoulder as she propels herself forward into wreckless sexual adventures. Prissy, the young-er house servant, portrays a somewhat comic role.

The movie avoids controversy by glossing over the harsher tones of what was reality for the OldSouth. Margaret Mitchell’s book had a subplot in which Scarlett’s former husband Frank Kennedyturned to the KKK after she was attacked, but in adapting the film, producer David O. Selznick omit-ted that element. He wanted to avoid the same controversy that unpinned “The Birth of a Nation” 24years earlier, a film that glorified and made heroes out of the Ku Klux Klan and thus has cast a contro-versial pall over its legacy.

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Perhaps dealing with the issue in the cold light of day might have unpinned the story’s romantic fire.This is a story about a Southern woman’s full-force sexual adventures at a time when her home andher way of life were coming apart. Slavery doesn’t seem to be a part of this story, only the provoca-tion of the war that surrounds it. We are asked to admire “Gone With the Wind” for how it portrayswomen while at the same time forgiving it for how it avoids the larger issue of slavery as a means ofstill providing escapist entertainment. That’s a lot of weight to carry, especially in our politicallycorrect culture. It is a movie that can be blamed for pushing aside the issue, but at the same time wecan think of it in these terms: “Gone With the Wind” is a product of its time. It focuses on ideas andattitudes that were prevalent in the 1930s. In that way, the movie is a time stamp, a window into theattitudes of a time gone by. The Civil War is not presented here, only an interpretation of the way weall heard about it, so maybe we can look on this movie as a manner of how the devastation of this warcame to be so romanticized. In that way, the movie is invaluable.

-Jerry Roberts

Bonnie Bailey Self

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IndexIndexIndexIndexIndexAnna Greer ......................................................................................................................................... 28Anna Greer ............................................................................................................................................4Anna Greer ......................................................................................................................................... 42Anna Greer ......................................................................................................................................... 43Bonnie Bailey Self ............................................................................................................................. 44Bonnie Bailey Self ............................................................................................................................. 44Bonnie Bailey Self ............................................................................................................................. 45Bonnie Bailey Self ............................................................................................................................. 45Bonnie Bailey Self ............................................................................................................................. 57Brandon Kimbrell .............................................................................................................................. 23Brandon Kimbrell .............................................................................................................................. 23Brandon Kimbrell .............................................................................................................................. 24Cassidy Dillingham ........................................................................................................................... 50Daniel Senko ..................................................................................................................................... 14Daniel Senko ..................................................................................................................................... 32Daniel Senko ..................................................................................................................................... 33Daniel Senko ........................................................................................................................................ 6Daniel Senko ........................................................................................................................................ 8DeAnna Haase ......................................................................................................................................9El Wood .............................................................................................................................................. 17Frank Sutherland .............................................................................................................................. 20Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 15Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 16Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 22Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 29Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 31Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 34Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 35Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 36Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 37Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 38Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 39Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 40Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 41Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................... 9Helen Companion ............................................................................................................................. 49Helen Companion ................................................................................................................................5Helen Companion ................................................................................................................................6Izzy Insane ......................................................................................................................................... 21Izzy Insane ......................................................................................................................................... 25Izzy Insane ......................................................................................................................................... 27 J.C. Patterson .................................................................................................................................... 15Jason Leach........................................................................................................................................ 11Jason Leach........................................................................................................................................ 11Jerry Roberts ..................................................................................................................................... 57

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Jerry Roberts. .................................................................................................................................... 54Kaitlyn Lee ......................................................................................................................................... 51Kenecia Russell .................................................................................................................................. 15Kenecia Russell .................................................................................................................................. 17Marthalena Alsbrooks ...................................................................................................................... 50Scot P. Langlan .................................................................................................................................. 52Scot P. Langland ................................................................................................................................ 10Scot P. Langland ................................................................................................................................ 10Scot P. Langland ................................................................................................................................ 11Sonceria Tucker ................................................................................................................................. 26Tony Lovell ......................................................................................................................................... 12Tony Lovell ......................................................................................................................................... 13Tony Lovell ......................................................................................................................................... 14Tyler Townsend ................................................................................................................................. 53Ulric Cowley .......................................................................................................................................... 7Ulric Cowley .......................................................................................................................................... 8William T. Squires .............................................................................................................................. 18William T. Squires .............................................................................................................................. 19

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