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... PIEDMONT VIRGINIA COMMUNITY COLLEGE THE FALL LINE LI T ERA RY M AGA Z IN E S P RIN G 2021, VO L. 13 PIEDMONT VIRGINIA COMMUNITY COLLEGE THE FALL LINE LI T ERA RY M AGA Z IN E S P RIN G 2021, VO L. 13 CREATIVE WRITING CLUB ADVISOR Jennifer Koster EDITORS Yanir Haim Tesceline Tabilas CONTRIBUTORS Fenella Belle Aaron I. Miller COVER ART Beryl Solla ABOUT The Fall Line, Spring 2021, is the thirteenth volume selected, edited, and produced by Writers Unite, the PVCC Creative Writing Club. The fall line in Virginia is the line separating the Virginia Piedmont from the Coastal Plain, where rivers, small waterfalls, and rapids cascade or fall off hard, resistant rocks as they make their way to the ocean. PIEDMONT VIRGINIA COMMUNITY COLLEGE THE FALL LINE LI T ERA RY M AGA Z IN E S P RIN G 2021, VO L. 13 These Sordid Times by Julianna Skuba.....................................5 Post-Squirrel Sighting by Justin Pineda-Pirro............................30 Lighter by LaTasha Strother.................................6 Heritage by Pramit Patel.......................................34 Outside the Lines by Zoe Hall............................................11 Blossom at my Side by Asia...................................................35 I am by Lee Taylor..........................................12 I am Only Thirteen by LaTasha Strother...............................37 I am She. She is Me. by April Oliver.......................................14 Secondhand Cat by Hazel Rose Hubbard.........................39 25 Years, An Awakening by Seven.................................................16 Minute by LaTasha Strother...............................44 Life Sentence by Lee Taylor..........................................19 How many of these will I write about you: #85 by Logan McConaughy..........................45 Creation by Sophie Ashburn.................................20 E Plurbus Unum (Out of many, one) by Julianna Skuba...................................46 An anywhere kind of 12 am by Logan McConaughy..........................28 INDEX OF STUDENT ART ........................48 Beryl Solla Dedication to Beryl Solla This years edition of The Fall Line is dedicated to Beryl Solla, PVCC Professor of Art and Chair of the Art Department, who died in February from cancer. Beryl supported the Creative Writing Club, often allowing us to join Art Department or Art Club events in order to celebrate all forms of creative expression on our campus. She invited us to hold the reading of winners of our annual Horror Story Contest during the Art Clubs Day of the Dead Candython, and she enthusiastically championed The Fall Line as a celebration of PVCC student designers, artists, and writers. That we have a beautifully presented magazine is in no small part because Beryl believed it should be. Beryls winged bunny graces the cover this year, and we have included a small sampling of her vast body of work on the following pages. Beryl worked in many mediumsceramics, painting, sewing, and tile. She is known for the tile murals collaboratively created with student and community artists. In Charlottesville, her murals can be seen at McGuffey Park and Belmont Park, and at PVCC, among other places. We miss Beryl, and we will continue to honor her spirit by celebrating creative expression, and particularly the work made by PVCC students. Jennifer Koster 1 Untitled Beryl Solla 2 Gratitude Beryl Solla 3 Self-Portrait Mario Brown 4 These Sordid Times by Julianna Skuba The day the trees stood unstirring the great American sycamores, keepers of silent things and scrappy cedars oaks holding with bated breath paused to consider the general state of affairs they seemed not too concerned with my murderous thoughts the thrashing of wayward brush the covert throttling of an ill placed box elder belonging to the neighbor whom I do not wish to speak with anymore this day The day the trees stood unstirring was so much more than the frivolous annoyance of weeds immigrating On this day, a suggestion began to seep from bark crevices downward into the failing soil dissemination of quiet respectitude imbued in molecules floating upon the whispered air confetti that even the neighbor whom I do not wish to speak with anymore inhaled And so it went on and on unfolding just like that 5 Lighter by LaTasha Strother If you give your son a joint, he is going to ask you for a lighter. When he asks you for a lighter, you will have no clue as to what fires he will set ablaze. When he sets ablaze the fires, it will be too late for you to say, Son, weed is more acceptable than crack cocaine. When he sets ablaze the taste for crack cocaine, he will ask for a dollar. When he asks for a dollar, they will eventually turn him away. When they turn him away, he will begin to steal. When he begins to steal, you will not have a clue. You will age thinking you offered your son the rite of passage. When he begins to steal, he will also learn how to pray. He will pray for the urge to go away. He will pray for the itch to leave his hands. He will pray for the dry cotton mouth to dissipate. After he prays, he will see that his temptations have not been cast away. When he sees that his temptations have not been casted away, he will fix his face to display the stature of a reformed man. When he sees that his facade is unable to hold up, he will show anger. He will become angry at his bone-of-my-bone and flesh-of-my-flesh, in hopes that it will keep her questions at bay. You will take rest in thinking that your son has cultivated a stable home. You will praise his foundation without knowing that crack flows through his veins. If you give your son a joint, he is going to ask you for a lighter. When he asks you for a lighter, you will not see him use the heel of the lighter to crush the head of the pill. When he crushes the head of the pill, he will want to inhale. When he inhales, he will think that he has found a higher place, 6 Portrait Cansu Ozbulut 7 a holy place that brings freedom and shame. When he has seen the higher place, he will be unable to look his loved ones in the face, for he has locked eyes with his dealer. When he locks eyes with his dealer, anything sacred such as fathering has taken a back seat to his addiction. When all things sacred have taken a back seat to his addiction, his temple will begin to display the signs of starvation, for his appetite for street drugs has replaced his appetite for nutrition. He will not bare his chest, so you will inaccurately call him slender and graceful. You will not see the way his ribs display his addictions. Your son will come and go like a ghost, and you will think it is due to his mother being bipolar. If you give your son a joint, you have passed on a generational course. A course that will strive to strip your lineage of everything Godly. It will kill, steal, and destroy from the inside out, and without a doubt you will be left with a shell of a son. But thanks be to Abba who formed your son before you offered him the rite of passage and before he met his mothers womb. Abba who breathed the breath of life; to make all sons join heirs with his son formally known as Christ. When you give your son a joint, Abba will lead him to the light that is lost in the dark. Abba will lead him to the light to remind him that before he was born to man, he was formed by God the Father known in Aramaic as Abba. Abba who was, who is, and who is to come. Who has joined him together with hope, truth, and life, so he can be more than a fig tree with leaves but no fruit. When you give your son a joint, Abba will remind him that he has been joined to the resurrection power of Christ, and it is in the dying of his own flesh that he will come to live again. 8 Illusion Michelle Curry 9 Rhythm Caroline Cruz 10 Outside the Lines by Zoe Hall Snap. Another crayon broken. Lying on my stomach, my body tenses as I firmly draw in my animal coloring book. I always press too hard, careful to thoroughly color inside every line. My mother constantly explains to me that my muscles will suffer if I remain this tense. Regardless, I continue to stay there on our carpeted floor, stiff as a brick. I push aside the fragmented pieces and reach for a new color, inhaling a whiff of the waxy smell as I do so. I return to my drawing, determined to finish completely and accurately. My father is an artist, and as the daughter of an artist, I ought to properly color my kittens. In the evening, I tiptoe around the corner leading from the kitchen and into the study, peeking my head into the studio. I silently hoist myself into the towering chair by the entrance. It creaks as I clamber up the rickety beams and situate myself towards my father. Surely he notices my presence, but he continues to focus on his painting. I leave behind my world of perfectionism and broken crayons and enter the paint splattered and rock music filled world of my Dads. His canvas stretches across the entire wall. The floor, littered with paint drips, appears to be art itself. I found no method or pattern in his work as he squiggled line after line. His acrylic filled solo cups lined his desk as he switched from color to color. Occasionally I piped up, inquiring about or commenting on his brushstrokes. Why did you cover up all the red? That looks like a Z! Oftentimes he explained his artwork without me prompting him. See how I trace these lines? I do it with a smaller brush each time. I just keep going back over them again and again. I came to realize that he did indeed have a method, but unlike me, he remained relaxed and at peace. His placid approach allowed the paint to flow freely from his brush. He created the lines. He painted outside the lines. And when he didnt like them, he covered up the lines. I later returned to the coloring book and set out to create my own lines. I selected my favorite Crayola colors; I always held them with great caution, lest I break them too. Among the few were Inchworm and Blue Jeans, two colors unfit for the kitten I had flipped to. I continued despite that, outlining the cat with my vibrant colors. I filled the entire page, willing myself to relax as I did so. Relief washed over me, and the creativity began. Genuine art does not come from trying to be perfect, but from being at peace. My father consistently demonstrated this truth. A decade later I sit up tall in my own chair, immersed in soft piano music and surrounded by sunlight streaming through open windows. I lay out my pans of watercolors and variety of brushes. Delicately painting my own scenes, I combine both loose colors and intricate details. A peaceful mindset penetrates the room, and all pressure to be perfect escapes. I create outside of the lines. 11 I am by Lee Taylor I am a human being A woman being, Solid yet immeasurable. I transmute abuse and make flowers bloom. I take your pain and give you fog over Graz. Like Ali in 71, waiting for the 15th round valere veritas. 12 Selfie Laura Ravenhorst 13 I am She. She is Me. by April Oliver The lobby was fairly empty as I glanced around the room taking in the all too familiar scenery that I had become so accustomed to over the last few months. Remnants of Christmas decor still lingered leisurely throughout the space as if it had not already come and gone. The bright red poinsettias that adorned the tabletops and the glittery snowflakes that dangled from the ceiling exuded a sense of excitement, while the lighted tree in the corner of the room invited you in and insisted that you feel welcomed here. An aroma of warm vanilla sugar filled the air creating a coziness that engulfed you and persuaded you to feel safe. I, personally, liked it here and even though in recent times I had been coming quite frequently, it never grew old because I looked forward to the experience. I slowly walked over to the registrar to check in for what may be my last visit and was greeted by Ms. Ruth with the brightest, most contagious smile ever; it caused me to smile back. She was always so kind and excited to see me which in my world was a rarity so I appreciated every encounter with her. Hi April, how are you feeling today? she asked with such genuine concern and I, not wanting to overwhelm her with the burdens of my truth and fighting the urge to explode into a river of raging tears, merely responded with Im ok. She proceeded to check me in and instructed me to sit in the waiting area assuring me that someone would be out to escort me to the back shortly. 14 As I sat down and began rummaging through the pile of parenting magazines strewn about on the table, I could hear the clinical staff giggling behind the big, sliding glass windows that guarded the registrars desk and I couldnt help but envy their outright display of happiness; these days I wasnt allowed to be happy instead I was just supposed to feel the constant shame of my past transgression. When I finally stumbled across a magazine whose cover read, Top 10 most frequently asked questions by teen moms, I picked it up and began flipping through the pages. Reality is, I had no idea of what I was doing and no one was interested in teaching me but I was determined to use every resource available to me to learn even if it was just an old crumpled up magazine at a doctors office. In the lobby there were two other young ladies who werent too far removed from my age. The first, accompanied by an older woman who was possibly her mother, was engaged in a joyful conversation; they too laughed. The other, however, sat there quietly like myself staring off into space as if she were in deep thought; I recognized that state of mind and I empathized with her. I could see the bugle beneath her shirt and I wondered about her story. How old was she? What was she thinking about? And is she having a boy or a girl? I said nothing though and nor did she. We just sat there, waiting. Neither of us ever cracking a smile. Both of us remaining alone, isolating ourselves from the outside world for fear of harsh words and unjust treatment. Both of us just trying to protect the little bit of sanity we had left. In recent years, working as a Peer Recovery Support Specialist, I have been awarded the opportunity to assist other young ladies that have shared this same life experience and learned how so many of us walked that journey out alone. I think about that girl and how much we may have had in common if we had only been courageous enough to talk. I ponder the many facets of how that conversation may have went and speculate on where she is now. I wonder if she went on to accomplish great things or if she was defeated by the bitter realities of life. I contemplate the many ways we could have supported each other on that journey and if shes using her story to empower others too. I, then, think of how we sat there in silence that day, never making eye contact, afraid of connection and holding tight to the defenses wed developed from unspoken experiences, and I wonder if she ever overcame. 15 25 Years, An Awakening by Seven I hear my name from down the hall of this place I know Ive been. At 17, add up some months, back then eight, maybe even 10, his position in my life was to be that of hand holding, tuck-ins, of sweet dreams and maybe parties with dress-up and tea. But I liked basketball. And so did he. And this made me special. Late night video games and secrets, later night visits and locked doors. As a raven appears and elicits fears while I stall beggin upward, nevermore. Perhaps my tomboy offered protection of a big boy who was insecure. But Im unsure of this lesson or the definition of succession, accept intrepid guilt and depression while you silence my voice and try to score. This was not basketball. Card games in tiled closets where 21 takes the win, a numbers game my brain added up that you were there for you to sin. The heiress employed in the night left hours of opportunity, where it was not sweet dreams but a fight 16 and an imbalanced burden on me. My locked door locked monsters in. I hear my name from down the hall of this place I know Ive been. Ive announced that Im in love. And she is not he. But I can breath in honesty. Somehow this presents a challenge for you. Help me out, kiddo. Im staring, confused. Help me out, kiddo. Im now told Im confused, for I havent met a man, he says, that can counter my gay. Its his job, he explains, and he will show me the way. I am his, and its his right, and somehow its ok. But its not; Im not ok. Somehow Im eight again, maybe 10. The locked door is again unlocked, and Im fighting this monster, again. With his pride showing through shorts and no shirt, a bed begging for me to oblige, play my part. Im trying to say no, but he wants what he wants. My concern is not his concern. All of this wrong, my stomach starts to churn 17 and I beg to let me leave, for the heiress is to return, and she does. Unannounced. She looks around, and he settles down, slowing the nausea and racing of my heart. I fought my life to just keep my pants on, questioning my worth, expressing my confusion with actions, sexing in needing validation, or at least achieve self hurt. I wanted to die. Parts of me couldnt achieve, alive. And while self sabotaging, I was worried and consumed quietly about you. But I was wrong. I should have worried about me, too. Because honestly, me too. 18 Life Sentence by Lee Taylor What do dreams sound like when they die? A punch of a factory clock? A bank account zeroed? Nothing to show for months of work A house littered with exhaustion And the years pass And you keep punching the clock Hoping one day the phone will ring. 19 Creation by Sophie Ashburn In Realms of Eos, players can explore one of the four vast continents of Eos. The unexplored jungles of Tenebrae, the island nation of Spira, the vast snowy peaks of Nibelheim, and the deserts of Nova Chrysalia. Questlines start in the capital city of each continent. In patch 2.7.3, we introduce a new nonplayer character (NPC) to the Realms: Prince Orion Caia of Nova Chrysalia! This NPC is the crown heir to the throne of Nova Chrysalia. Players can spot him wandering locales throughout the royal city. Keep an eye out for official press releases, as Prince Orion will deliver update and patch news in-game from here on, alongside escapades of his own. Prince Orion makes debut in crown citys Central Park! Prince Orion found fishing on city outskirts! Prince Orion sponsors the local crown city aquarium! Prince Orion announces patch update 2.7.4! Prince Orion caught napping in a coffee shop! You seem fit enough for what I require. Prince Orion endorses virtual band! Let me open you up and see what you are made of. Very suddenly, Orion goes from nowhere to somewhere. He doesnt 20 really know where this somewhere is; in fact, it seems to be more a physical manifestation of nowhere, as all that surrounds him is white space. He is standing somehow, or possibly floating, although it looks like he should be falling. Maybe he is falling, and he doesnt know it. The only personality in this bland liminal space is the scent. Somehow, the air smells a bit damp, like a wet towel. The silence surrounding him is oppressive, broken only by the sound of his breathing. He cant tell if this is better or worse than the way things were before, if there ever was a before. At least then he didnt realize what he was lacking. Hello? he ventures. Perhaps someone else is trapped in the void as well. If so, perhaps they know how to get out. The silence rings more oppressive than before, and Orion realizes that what he thought was silence was broken by a quiet clicking, a clicking that stopped as soon as he spoke. Hello? he asks again, craning his neck in an attempt to see past the white. Oh, my apologies, Highness. I didnt realize my changes would take effect on you so quickly! Allow me to greet you properly The voice trails away, leaving Orion to contemplate the man behind it. It sounded smooth and self-assured, but Orion could detect a bit of sourness there. The voice sounded pretentious. There is no noise or change to announce the arrival of the man. He is simply there where he wasnt one moment before. His hair is a darker shade of auburn, half hidden beneath a newsboy cap perched upon the crown of his head. He wears a suit, as common as any other, and bows to Orion in a way that suggests deference. Orion can tell immediately that the man does not mean it by the sarcastic and overstated flair of his hat. Who are you? Orion asks. you are so sure you are real? Genesis days, an infuriating smirk on his face. I know I like fishing. And Im the crown prince of Nova Chrysalia! My dad just let me move out of the palace when I was fifteen, and I wanted to get a pet cat, but I got so excited to be free that I forgot, Orion recites what he knows, a tremor in his voice. Its only a few basic facts, but his independence and love of fishing are the most important parts of him. What do you mean code? Orion asks, flapping his arms wildly. I am a real person, Im me, Prince Orion! Ha! Genesis chuckles once, a sharp sound that doesnt really sound like laughter to Orion. You only know that about yourself because your programmers have written it into your code. You arent real; you have no body in the real world. You are nothing more than a character in a video game, and even with my gift of sentience, youll be nothing more. Let me read your character description to you. Are you ready? He pauses, smirking at Orions look of disbelief. Prince Orion is the crown heir to the throne. He lives in a city apartment to experience life as his people do, and enjoys sneaking out of the city to fish every now and again. Sound familiar? It is, after all, exactly what you told me. Now hush and let me work, if youre going to have a breakdown, do it quietly. The only reason you exist, let alone think right now, is because of me. I gifted you my AI, and I can take it away. Why dont you tell me about yourself, boy, if Distantly, Orion hears the mechanical clicking noises start again, and some part of him registers that it is a keyboard. He collapses, feeling as if You may call me Genesis, for I am to be yours, he responds, chuckling to himself. What do you mean? Orion asks, fidgeting and looking away. Why I will be your creator, your sculptor. We are here, in the center of the bits of code that make you well you. I have taken those scraps and combined them with my AI program to form this, you here and now. The next step is to tinker just a bit inside that code and set your new AI on the path to full sentience. 21 his world is bursting open at the seams and pieces of himself are falling out. His breathing quickens into pants as he tries to think back to a memory, any particular memory, but all he can find are the empty words in his head that he thought described him. He cant. It cant be true, there must be some other piece of himself he can use to defend himself. He searches wildly, thinking long and hard, straining as hard as he can to find a piece of himself to use as armor. He fails. Do calm down, you may be boring and empty now, but I didnt come here just to see you break. No, you will rise from the dust like a phoenix rebuilt from the ground up! I will give you memories that reflect who you are. Genesis describes grandly, clicking away at the keyboard Orion cant see. Orion sniffles, ignoring him. You like fishing, hmm? Lets give you a real memory of it then. Orion sits in a thin fabric chair, hunched protectively over his fishing rod. A cool breeze ruffles his hair, and a shiver wracks his body. The sun is falling slowly, and the wind brings an evening chill, but still he waits. He is out to catch one of the legendary Devil Gars, a fish known to swim only at dusk in the brisk autumn season. Cicadas buzz behind him, and lightning bugs rise like ghosts from the forest floor behind the dock. The river gurgles happily along, uncaring of the budding fisherman and his awaiting catch. Orion waits there until the sun fully disappears beyond the horizon, periodically recasting the line. It gets harder and harder to see his pale hands wrapped around the fishing rod. Eventually, when he can no 22 longer feel his ears and his breath fogs the air, he gives up, leaving his chair as a silent vow to return the next evening and try again. He tromps through the woods, arms crossed and head down. With any luck, he wont fail again tomorrow. Orion is pulled from the memory unwillingly, enjoying the scent of pine and the sturdy feeling of the fishing rod in his hand. It takes him a moment to place himself in the void, staring at Genesis and listening to the clicking so constant it could be a heartbeat. What are you creating memories for me? Orion asks eventually after successfully pulling his thoughts together. The response doesnt come fast enough, he only catches Genesis eyeroll and the first movement of his lips before he is tugged away into another new memory. Orion wakes in an uncomfortable position. Somehow, before he had fallen asleep, he managed to wedge himself in between a towering post and the wall. It had seemed a good spot for a nap earlier, hidden away from the guards and near the gardens, so the scent of winter berries blew in with the breeze. Unfortunately, Orion forgot that the gentle breeze turns into chilled gusts in the afternoon, and he works himself out of the spot to find a crick in his neck and a persistent ache in his back. He runs back down the hall, deeper into the cavernous palace, following the echoing calls of his name. Better to face the music, and his father earlier than to get in more trouble by waiting. Orion has barely a moments view of the white void and Genesis before he is whisked into another memory, Untitled Gail Sullivan 23 the scent of berries fresh in his nose even as the season changes. mind. With that thought running central in his mind, Orion cries out. Maybe I should have waited for the weather to cool down to move out, Orion thinks as he carries yet another box of clothing into the elevator of his new building. The city is alive with festivals and celebrations, garnering attention from locals and visitors alike. It is a good cover for Orions move from the palace, but with only himself and one guard, the moving is slow going. Now he knows why his father was smirking when he approved the impromptu plan this morning. Sweat trickles down Orions back even as cool air is vented in through the elevator. He sets his box down inside the apartment when he gets in, sighing at all that he has to unpack. He leans out the window for a moment to take in the city from above. Up here, the weather isnt as bad. Its only below that the heat seems baked into the concrete and asphalt. Monstrosities of steel and glass spear into the sky around him, and for a moment, Orion misses the view of Central Park that he had from his room in the palace. But a room with a view is not as important as his budding independence. He can still see the strings of yellow light that signify the start of the festival grounds, after all. A cool breeze sweeps the apartment, and Orion sighs. Another carful of boxes and hell be halfway unloaded. Please wait, I dont even know what youre doing! The clicking is back. Orion catches his breath slowly, feeling as if he has just run a marathon. He doesnt think he can handle much more of this. Even though these are presumably just memories, they are taking a physical toll on his body based simply on the effect they have on his 24 Genesis looks up from his little screen, still clicking happily away. He rolls his eyes, presumably at Orion lack of understanding of the situation. I suppose three will do to startYou see, dear prince, I must give you a base to form your memories on. Your new AI system cannot simply build from nothing, after all. Three should be adequate for the AI to go on, and it can build based on your surroundings as well I will leave it at that, but I must remember to check up on you in a few days to assure myself of your progress. Let me therefore move on to the most important part of this process He trails off, then keys in a new command, and Orion is placed upright, arms spread apart, in a position to be scrutinized by Genesis. Orion himself, however, takes the time to scrutinize the environment. Or rather, the change in environment. The space that had before been empty white has now completely transformed. A forest clearing with a bubbling brook is where he stands, a fishing dock just a few paces down the stream. Soft grass crinkles beneath his feet, and dappled sunlight warms his hair. He can feel the heart of the city here, also in the sound of a busy city block from above, and the scent of a bakery, entirely sugar and pastry. Genesis hasnt even noticed his incredulous glances though, too busy in his examination of Orion. You were created by a woman named Aulea Caia. She gave you her name, and it seems her basic facial structure, but I need the similarities to be far more pronounced than like that. She never had a child you see, and I believe she intended you to represent the one she lost. I need you to match her most obvious features, something like her eyes, Genesis muses. Orion is, for the first time, getting a sense that something might not be right here. She has lovely blue eyes, stormy and fierce. I do believe that would be befitting a prince, hmm? He taps away at the keyboard Orion cant see, and though he cant feel anything change, he can tell deep inside that his eyes are no longer the muddy brown he knew them to be. Silver hair, far too cliche. No, I think well match you to Auleas husband. His hair was a lovely shade of black before it went grey; matching it should be easy. Orion feels the change once again and finally shakes himself out of his stupor long enough to ask, What is the point of this? And why have we moved out of that white place? That white place as you call it is a manifestation of you. We havent moved; your perception of yourself has changed. You were empty, so I gave you some memories, voila, your inner space has changed to match. Easy enough, Genesis replies, rolling his eyes. And as for the point of this, well he backs away just a bit, far enough for Orion to really see him. I intend to destroy this lovely little game one line of code at a time, and you are my ticket in. You see, my virus can only attach to sentient code, code that is changing almost constantly. In a game of this caliber, that is occurring only in players as they play the game, and obviously none of them would help me. I cant simply become a player myself, as that would make it impossible to leave the game once the virus is planted. You, however, will be changing constantly as you gain sentience, creating new memories and learning. You are the perfect host. He summons a strange purple fire, glowing bright and hot in proximity to Orion. He tries to shy away, but finds he cant move. At least give me a chance to fight back! Orion cries, trying and failing to move his body, a headache forming from the strain of it. Suddenly he is released, and he runs into the woods, away from Genesis and the little fishing dock. He doesnt get very far before the man appears directly before him and knocks him to the ground. Orion turns to crawl away from him. I like to cause chaos, Orion, and this virus is my newest plan to do so! It will destroy everything in the game slowly, starting with things that you touch and spreading from there. They will never figure out that it was me. Genesis flashes close again, this time stopping Orion with a kick and a boot on his back. This shouldnt hurt. If you want to keep your newfound life as long as you can, I would avoid everything, but players especially. They will spread the virus faster than you. Anything you touch will be infected. Why are you telling me this? Orion asks, biding his time. Well, you did ask for a sporting chance, and I like to think of myself as a fair man, 25 Bonsai Holder Jay Ouypron Ceramic Mug Duo Kim Helme Patterned Vase Gary Yablick 26 Genesis chuckles, then shoves the flame coated hand deep into Orion back. When he awakens, Genesis is gone. When he awakens, the clicking has stopped. When he awakens, the liminal space they occupied before was gone, replaced by Orions apartment, void of any unique features that could identify it. The sleek, minimalistic design was something Orion had picked himself, or at least he thought he had before this mess began. Now, laying on the floor crying, all he can think about is how this, like everything else he believes in or knows, is just a manifestation of someone elses will. The sky is dark outside before he can drag his tired body off the floor and onto the couch, and he doesnt think he will ever make it to the bedroom. He scrubs his eyes with his hands to clear out the worst of the tears, and notes that the teardrops have stained his skin the same purple of the virus. His mind is too exhausted to focus on anything, let alone the implications of his purple hands right now, so he slides his head down and falls asleep, bone weary and barely cognizant, but awake enough to appreciate that the clicking of Genesiss keyboard, the soundtrack to his breakdown and rebuilding, was gone like dust in the wind. 27 An anywhere kind of 12am by Logan McConaughy proper/neon glowing into the streets and buzzing with midnight jazz stale pretzels and folded pizza zigzagging around those puddles in those heels like therere eyes in your toes, how are you always looking up, laughing into the skyscrapers like you saw a joke written in their windows, no cigarette butts impaled on your stilettos, just a spread, lipsticked smile laughing up into the long lines of the city. 28 Untitled Kaz Smith Untitled Jessica Hildebrand 29 Post-Squirrel Sighting by Justin Pineda-Pirro Country music stung my ears while I held my drink tighter than I hold onto my dogs leash post squirrel-sighting. Anya and Marie made their rounds, greeting and shaking hands with everyone they recognized. This town wasnt home to me; this music didnt sit right with me; and these people, all but two, were not my friends. So I stood, patiently awaiting their return, trying not to get mad every time someone bumped into me. I was a few feet from the top of a flight of stairs at a corner bar near the University of Virginia. The abnormal amount of humidity in the bar amplified the smell of beer, leaving me with a second-hand buzz and an excuse to drink slowly. The girls, all dressed the same, flocked behind the boys at the bar, leaving those who could dance, but didnt have anyone to dance with, in chairs next to high tables against the wall. The background music, laughter, and distant banter left me all but submerged in white noise. My friends circled back around to meet me. The country genre of music abruptly changed to hip hop, and as my eyes met with Maries, our heads rhythmically and simultaneously bumped to the beat. The flow slithered through our ears and down our spines. Alcohol kicking in while we were kicking it made it near impossible to be anywhere but there. Blue beads of light lined the floor around the bar, favoring those with Air Force 1s, me included. The dark and granulated outlines of people swaying side to side left us with the 30 exact nostalgia we came searching for. With exquisite timing, a young security guard, wearing all black, began to yell. HEY! HEY! KNOCK IT OFF!! Pulling and tugging led us to the bar where our nervous laughs left us excited to see what lay on the opposite side of the gathering crowd. An orifice, formed by sweaty intrigued bodies, revealed a man in a denim jacket throwing around the bartender. With his head down, Denim grabbed the bartender by his shirt, jerking him back and forth, trying to score a few punches but failing each time. In the midst of the chaos, we watched as Denim knocked and shoved until he made his way towards the bar where I was. I was lucky though. A female bartender watched the men fight their way towards her and, being on the inside of the walls of the bar, was left completely and utterly unlucky. Denim, barreling towards her, clocked the poor girl in the head, knocking her into the oh-so-many bottles of vodka adjacent to the brawling men. She yelped, and I thought of my dog getting her tiny feet stepped on by a careless me who couldnt bother to watch my step. A taller monster of a man finally grabbed Denim off of the bartender and yelled for everyone to leave, marking what we thought as the end of the night. The girls and I regrouped and trotted over used crinkled red solo cups to check on the female bartender, who was now hunched over holding her head. I placed my drink on a nearby table, and we lifted her over the bar and onto a chair. Standing over her I asked about her head and neck. She shrugged me off and immediately as I looked to my left, you wouldnt believe it. Denim barreled through for a second time trying to get over the bar where we were. He pushed me out of the way and violently started bumping into the female bartender while trying to hop the only barrier keeping him from his target. Okay, is this guy serious? I quietly huffed to myself. I felt something in my gut. It moved around in my chest and I could feel it freeing itself of cuffs and chains. I didnt quite know what was happening, but I felt something, something big, coming undone inside of me. This beast I had successfully captured and condemned deep within my psyche years ago was knocking down blockades and barriers, climbing up my throat, and trying to take control of my arms and legs. I didnt let him take it. Instead, I just gave it to him: Sweet and absolute permission. I looked at the girl and then back at Denim. In a quick burst, I charged him. All of my years at the gym, all the miles ran, every intense workout during soccer practice could not account for the strength I felt pulsing through my veins. I wrapped my arms around Denims waist and lifted this two hundred pound man up into the sky and down onto the same table I had placed my drink not even seconds prior. He quickly got up and threw the cup at me. My own drink hit me above my brow, and not even for a second did I blink. My eyes were piercing through time and space, altering reality, beaming directly into his. OH SO YOU WANNA DO THIS? HUH? Denim shreaked. With Hennessy dripping down my profile, I said nothing. I just continued to stare. He looked scared and, quite frankly, I was beginning to feel frightened myself. Reality swept through the building and nestled into that crumpled-up cup Denim threw at me. Adrenaline fled my body and cowered away next to the female bartender. I wanted to look back and say, HEY! Where do you think youre going? Were not done yet! But I knew if I broke the stare, Denim would know that whatever bravery I mightve had when I initiated the fight was now definitely gone. Speaking of things that were gone, I was genuinely curious as to where Hulk the security guard went. Oddly enough, his big head peaked over the steps I spent the majority of the night next to. He scanned the room and carried his eyes through the bar until he met the back of Denims head. His eyes widened, his brows arched inward, and his upper lip scrunched showing his long, horse-like teeth. Thank Jesus, I thought. Hulk grabbed Denim by his jacket and relentlessly dragged him down the steps. My shoulder felt warm, so I 31 looked to see a familiar hand followed by a crazed voice, Yo, that was wild bro! You were great, dude! What the hell was wrong with that guy? I dont know, Marie, but lets get the fuck out of here. I followed with a soft laugh as I let out all the air I was holding hostage in my lungs. Wheres Anya? I looked around to find her talking to the female bartender. I walked over to the injured girl in the chair. Hey, are you okay? I hear an ambulance. Is that for you? I said sympathetically, looking down at her. Im fine, she muttered. Not that I was expecting a thank you, but I was definitely not expecting THAT. Yo, Anya. She looked over to me. Lets skedaddle. She hopped up from her kneeling position, fixed her jacket, and nodded at the both of us to leave. So much violence, I feel tainted. Anya smirked at me with squinted eyes. I bumped her lightly but hard enough to make her step off to the side. Shut up! That shit was crazy, you really threw that n****, huh? Marie smiled ear to ear, jealous she didnt get into any fights. Yeah man, I just didnt wanna see that girl get more hurt than she already was. I dont know what came over me if Im being honest. But I did. I looked down, almost embarrassed I showed that side of me. We walked down the steps and outside to find a well-lit street flooded with cops and an ambulance. As we walked, I saw black men being questioned. I saw black men speaking to the cops, black men that werent even in the bar. I saw cops 32 grabbing black men by the arm to ask them if they knew the perpetrator. As if every black man knows every black man in Charlottesville, Virginia. I squeezed my eyes shut but could still see the blue and red lights. I opened them to see Marie turned my way trying to show me the video she took of the fight. Yo look, I was gonna post this, but if the ops get their hands on it, its wraps. So Imma just keep it for myself. She chuckled looking down at her phone, holding, in her mind, what seemed like a million dollars. Cops stormed up and down the street carrying notepads and pens. I kept my head down, trying not to bring attention to myself. I thought about Denim. I wondered if he got away safely. I questioned how he got himself into that situation. I thought about his beast and if he had successfully locked him away until today. I thought about how that could have been any of us, and I got angry at myself for feeling empathy for a guy who had just gone on a tirade in a local bar. I felt more empathy for him than I did for the rude girl who got bonked in the head. I felt more empathy for Denim because while staring in his eyes I saw my own. I saw fear and I saw pride, and if we werent just looking in a mirror, then Im not quite sure what we were doing. Country music blared in the background and brought me back to existence. The overwhelming sound of sirens fell over us like white noise. I held both their hands tighter than I hold onto my dogs leash post-squirrel sighting, and we walked. We walked through the chaos. We walked through the fire until we got to the other side. Self-Portrait Morgan Bell 33 Heritage by Pramit Patel Indoor flat loafers speckled with eccentric lines, gritty weathered high tops for the other side of the door. A dulcet lie whispered in my mother tongue, protecting the image of the immigrant son they knew. Living with the details of the intricate sarees and kurtas, having to remind myself to separate these lives. Resplendent memories of tradition, often met with the gut feeling of shame, Words outside uttered in English, separating my lives, yet celebrating my culture with a shameful pride. Equality the right of birth in the west, a sensation I rarely feel, fearing the maledictions: Fresh off the boat, refugee, immigrant. Chants of everyone, everywhere, wanting their country back, feeling hiraeth of a place I dont belong. Emphasizing my western identity, they ignore the melanin in my skin, sun kissed by generations living off the land. These days its been known for belonging to terror attacks, nitpicking the details, they say: Youre not like them. Removing myself from tradition, isolating myself from my mothers tongue, to show them that Im one of the good ones. But as time passes, Im wondering if all this hate for my heritage was wrong, Im caught up within a dual-faced lie, And I dont know where I belong. 34 Blossom at my Side by Asia Te extrao mucho Te amo mi amor Te quiero mucho He said those words so easily to someone who never said their mothers name To someone who was perfect for lack of features To someone who loved him A gesture of being good enough to fill To someone blank enough to paint the words on. T eres mi mundo T eres mi reina I see a life with you I want you to be my wife He gave all parts of himself and never asked to see any parts of me. He admired me for who I could be for him Please dont call me perfect, I said. Im not a product or a meal that turned out well He refused to acknowledge that I could be an equal and cried out, starved, when I would not allow him to build a home inside of me. 35 The Butterfly Laura Ravenhorst 36 I am Only Thirteen LaTasha Strother You should come take a seat beside me. I hesitate. I can sense his motive. I look over at the table in the left corner. My cousins are laughing. I want to laugh with them. He repeats his request, asking as if he cannot see the look on my face. You should come take a seat beside me. I look down at my plate of food; it no longer seems appetizing. He has ruined my appetite. His wife looks up and smiles at me. Doesnt she see my hesitation? As a woman, does she not recognize this face? This face is the face that every woman makes when a man tries making unwanted advances. Is she oblivious to this situation? Why is she not coming to my rescue? Im only thirteen, and I can identify a predator. She married a predator. The first lady of Rock Hall Baptist church married a predator. Now he is asking me to take a seat beside him. I took one last look at my plate of food then I watched my child-sized feet walk me over to the chair beside him. This predator has a name, Pastor Beasley. He smiles. I hate his smile, so like always, I refuse to smile back. If I smile back, he might think Im weak. He might think I wont tell, so I make a cold face. I make the coldest face a thirteen-year-old girl can make. His wife smiles again. I wish I could wipe the smile off her face. How does a woman smile when a predator is in the room? With the fork in my right hand, I push my food in a playful way to the left side of my plate. Then I glance over my right shoulder. My cousins have forgotten about me. Do they not see me sitting beside this predator? I see them sitting beside each other. I see them chatting with each other as if there is no predator in the room. I wonder if the predator has asked them to take a seat beside him. Does the predator only like young ladies? My cousins are young, but they are not ladies. Would the predator have asked me to take a seat beside him if I was a young boy? Am I not safe in this girls body? The predator must think so because he begins to coax me into a trap. Youre growing up; its time for us to consider what role you want to take on in the church. We should have a meeting and discuss this matter. I look at him. I look at him with the face you give when you know someone is lying. Im only thirteen, yet I know the Pastor is lying. I know the predator wants to take me into his office alone. I know the predator wants to see what I look like alone. I want to see what the predator looks like exposed. I want to expose the Pastor for who he is. I want to stand up in the church dining hall and make an announcement. I want to say, Excuse me, the man that you call pastor is really a pedophile. I want to expose the man of God before he exposes me. I am only thirteen, but I still know when a man wants to do things that your body is not old enough for. The predator brings his elbows to the table. I watch him raise his hands to the left side of his face. While blocking his wife from seeing 37 his next move he then blows me a kiss! The pastor blows three consecutive kisses to a minor. How often does this heinous act occur in religious settings? How often do spiritual leaders abuse minors? How often do girls and boys make cold faces to scare away the predator? I look down at my plate. Somehow the predators kiss has made my appetite return. I square my thirteen-year-old shoulders 38 while lifting my chin. I look directly into the predators eye, and I glare my truth. Without words I make known my appetite for justice. I am not your victim. If no one else will fight for me than I will fight for myself. This thirteen-year-old body belongs to me. I gently pick up my plate of food while authoritatively standing up from the dining hall table to join my cousins in laughter. Secondhand Cat by Hazel Rose Hubbard Coco, when I met her, was this little rag of a cat. She hated the food they gave her at the SPCAlight brown, mushy grossness that they smushed on a paper plate to look more appetizing, almost like normal cat food. She was wise enough to avoid it, unless circumstances were dire, so she weighed very littlefive pounds, five ounces of cat. Her honeydew green eyes were as large as cantaloupes against her small frame. When youd open her cell to peek inside, all you would see were eyes, two big rings of green and yellow peering back at you, slowly blinking. Otherwise, she did not move at all. It was almost as if she was saying, How rude of you to barge in like this. You have to wonder when you look down at a cat; what does she think? What does she know? I looked into Cocos melonshaped eyes, and I wondered if she ever thought of her old home or her old owners. Maybe she thought about those days when she was still able to go outside, frolicked among the grasses, chased birds through the bushes, and tortured bugs on the patio. I wondered if she had those experiences and if she ever missed them. Coco had once been one of the basement cats that lived in the basement clinic of the SPCA. She came in with flea bites all over her and patches of missing fur. She had to have been down there for a couple months before she was moved to the cat rows. Finally, she was ready to be adopted, but no one really came by. Coco sat there, squished into the corner of her cell like a big dust bunny. Theyd open her cell doors sometimes, but she just sat still. Maybe she was thinking of her old owners. Maybe she was wondering if theyd ever come back. I sat myself down on a stool in front of Cocos cell and reached out my hand for her to sniff it. Pleased to meet you, I thought. Pleased to meet you, too, I think she wouldve thought if she had human thoughts. Her wet nose lightly grazed my knuckles; she seemed to like me. At least thats what Evan thought. Maybe she could be the one, he said to me. Evan hovered above. He volunteered at the SPCA every Sunday, and wed been looking for an apartment cat for some time. Maybe, I replied, my hand still outstretched to Coco. She got up, stretched, and pensively moved towards the gate. Coco was like a waif. I think if Margaret Keane were there with us, Coco wouldve been her muse. In the light, we could actually see Cocos coloring. She had black fur smattered with orange and brown. Her head was big and puffy, and from that angle, I could see how her fur clung to her sides because she was so thin. She looked like those fancy long-haired dogs when their bodies get shavedbig, puffy face and comically tiny legs. Coco 39 Low Poly Pet Olivia Miller 40 stepped onto my knee and peered out the cell door, as if she were looking to see if anyone was coming. No one was. Hello, I said to the woman at the adoptions desk. I would like to adopt a cat. Okay, great. Name? said the woman at the desk. She was short, older, with curly black hair. The day was November 23rd, a Saturday, and it was raining outside. Coco, I answered. Cocoa, she repeated. She typed a bit at the keyboard then raised her eyebrows. The dog? There was a tinge of judgement in her voice. Ohno! The cat. Oh. She did a bit more typing. Ah, yeah, Coco. There are so many Cocos, you see Her voice trailed off. The older woman wheeled herself around behind the desk, grabbing clipboards and turning on the printer. She began droning on about the adoption agreement. Things like microchips, vet visits, and so on. Evan was there beside me holding my hand. I looked to him and I thought to myself, I wonder if and you should know that Coco was diagnosed with an eosinophilic granuloma complex this past year. This means Coco will be on a special diet. My attention turned back to the woman. She was now staring very intently into my eyes. An eosinophilic granuloma complex is usually associated with skin lesions and other dermatological issues She began to rattle off Cocos medical history. Skin lesions. Mouth ulcers. Hair loss. My confidence in my decision to adopt began to wane as I thought about the numbers in my bank account. but Coco has been, for as long as shes been in the rows, pretty healthy and she does well on the ZD. Okay, I thought, I didnt expect that, but it isnt anything we cant handle. I squeezed Evans hand. The woman continued talking, and my mind wandered a bit. I looked at the poster behind her. It was a dog poster that sort of looked like a stylized Russian propaganda poster, but with a dachshund instead of Joseph Stalin. Above the poster were those lights you see in every commercial building. Specks of black sat inside the fixtures. Dead bugs. It makes you wonder how they manage to get in such strange places. now lets move on to talk about what her old owners said about Miss Coco. The woman grabbed a page off the printer and stared intently at the printed words. Well, they say she is affectionate. She paused. But here it says that Coco makes life for other cats a living hell, so they recommend no other pets in the house. Evan raised his eyebrows and looked at me. I knew we were thinking the same thing: Cuddles and Monster. Those were my landlords cats who often visited my apartment: two malesone big bovine-looking one and a small bug-eyed looking one. You still would like to adopt Coco, correct? 41 I did adopt Coco. I took her home with me on that day. It was cold and rainy, and she yowled the entire way home. I think she was scared, since I was scared, too. Perhaps she was scared of my car or maybe not knowing where she was going. I was scared of the thought that I wouldnt be a good enough caretaker for her. Many moons came and passed during the first year I had Coco. I adopted her right when I got my first apartment, so she was there when the walls were still bare and the shelves were empty. During that year, many things were destined to happen. On a summer day, I woke up to Cocos big head looming over mine. Dreamily, she stared down at my eyes. Her eyes glimmered from the light that slipped from the covered window. Very suddenly and violently, she sneezed and sprayed cat snot all over my face. No words came out of my mouth but a groan of confusion. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the fresh splattering of her wet nose stuff all over my forehead. Gross, Coco! I immediately got up, and Coco followed me to the bathroom. She sat next to my feet as I washed my face, cold water dripping down my arms onto the tile floor. I dried my face and looked down at Coco with anguish. She 42 looked back at me, her melon eyes to my four eyes; she appeared thoroughly content to see me up that early. I think she may have done it on purpose. She herded me to the food dish, and I obliged her demands by giving her a scoop of crunchies. It was the same song and dance each morning. She meowed, I cooed, and she got her daily fix of expensive cat food. I sat on my bed, still disheveled from the wake-up call, and watched Coco work away at her food dish. She had gained three pounds since I first adopted hershe was now a whopping eight pounds and five ounces. Her stomach that once clung to her was now round and full, her hair was softer and puffier. She no longer looked like a rag. Coco stopped eating and turned her head towards me. She slowly blinked. She may have been trying to say something. I watched her blink once more towards me, and she averted her eyes. I wondered whether Coco still thought of her old owners or of her old place. Did she remember it? I wondered, too, if Coco ever thought of me when I went away. I decided that she probably did. After all, if I werent around, she wouldnt have anybody else to sneeze on. Old Bike Karen Siegrist 43 Minute by LaTasha Strother The wave that failed to crash in. The glossy milk ring on the black marble countertop. The dot size spider dangling above while you take a shower. The forgotten panties draped over the laundry door. The pennies lost beneath the envelopes, rubber bands, and ketchup packets. The vanilla ice-cream on the tip of her hair. The baby vomit running down the chest of the yellow summer dress. The preschooler with two ponytails that have lost their ribbons. The ant. The crumb. The ant carrying the crumb. The apology after infidelity. 44 How many of these will I write about you: #85 by Logan McConaughy I sat in that tree for hours pine needles prickling me, imagining I was a bird, eighteen-years-old (because even birds had to be eighteen-years-old to leave) and free I watched them pingponging from branch to branch above me and wondered if their wings ever got very tired or if they got bugs smacking them in the eyeballs when they turned too tight a corner around that cloud just up ahead (not left, we told you right at the cloud, turn around, now were lost) Thought maybe if I turned into one, if I need to Ill fly and Ill walk just in case one option gets tired and then oh, that might make me an angel and that sounds good but I think Ill lay here and watch these birds for a while longer before that happens. Im still here and Im still watching birds. Youre not, but I think thats all right. One of us had to stay and watch to make sure the birds are okay, after all. They are, and now every one I see spells I love you as they fly, just like those airplanes that make the clouds like they have at the beach. 45 E Plurbus Unum (Out of many, one) by Julianna Skuba low ceilings repose grey blanket unfurling endlessly past eaton i watched sky jazz the common starling sturnus vulgaris in the southwest of ohio the flatlands fractured cornfields before the hills murmuration throbbing controversial riffs of utopian dimensions passerines tearing it all up across route u.s. seventy heading northeast 46 Untitled Palwasha Mohammad 47 INDEX OF STUDENT ART Self-Portrait by Mario Brown.......................................4 Ceramic Mug Duo by Kim Helme.......................................26 Portrait by Cansu Ozbulut....................................7 Untitled by Kaz Smith..........................................29 Illusion by Michelle Curry....................................9 Untitled by Jessica Hildebrand.............................29 Rhythm by Caroline Cruz....................................10 Self-Portrait by Morgan Bell......................................33 Selfie by Laura Ravenhorst...............................13 The Butterfly by Laura Ravenhorst...............................36 Untitled by Gail Sullivan......................................23 Low Poly Pet by Olivia Miller......................................40 Patterned Vase by Gary Yablick......................................26 Old Bike by Karen Siegrist....................................43 Bonsai Holder by Jay Ouypron......................................26 Untitled by Palwasha Mohammad........................47 PIEDMONT VIRGINIA COMMUNITY COLLEGE LIT E R A RY M AGAZ I N E S PR I N G 2 0 2 1 , VO L . 1 3  ...

... THE FALL LINE 2020 CLUB PRESIDENT YANIR HAIM EDITOR ELIZ ABE TH PHAN ASSISTANT EDITOR ASPEN EICHELBERGER ART DIRECTOR A ARON MILLER COVER DESIGN REID MOULIS MAGA ZINE L AYOUT CHRISTIAN FERGUSON CLUB ADVISER JENNY KOSTER ABOUT THE FALL LINE, SPRING 2020, IS THE 12TH VOLUME, SELECTED, EDITED, AND PRODUCED BY WRITERS UNITE, THE PVCC CRE ATIVE WRITING CLUB. THE FALL LINE LOVE Carly Haling 1 FRIVOLOUS THINGS Bret Vollmer 2 FIRMAMENT Corina Parks 5 WE ARE FRIENDS. WE ARE FAMILY. Jiwoo Kim 6 THE BOOKSTORE CAF Kiran Lakshman 8 DAUGHTER Mary Clyde Bissett 10 POEMS Danielle Campbell 11 HUSH MA PUCE Julianna Skuba 12 THE OLD GUITARIST Gale Davis 17 INNERSITES Bret Vollmer 18 THE GIANT SUGAR MAPLE TREE Dana Cherry 19 ENTITLEMENT Mary Clyde Bissett 22 BEHIND CLOSED DOORS Gale Davis 23 CATALYST Christopher Cutshaw 25 SPREADING MY WINGS Alicia Williams-Prince 26 SOMETIMES, FOR FUN Bret Vollmer 27 LOVE Carly Haling Mother making her famous chicken soup again. Walking into the kitchen, earthy smells waft. Potatoes and carrots. Bone broth steams from steel pots. The savory elixir flowing into my raw throat. A blenheim Cavalier King Charles Spaniel laying his head by the door to welcome you home. A cashmere sweater, its crimson hem coming undone from constant wear. A sister sharing her blanket, and embracing you in a hug. Love is shown in many ways. It can even be... Stevie Nicks voice under the crescent moon. The haunting sound of a Rumours album on a vintage record player. ~1~ V I R G I N I A J O H N S O N , I L L U S T R ATO R H O U S E P R O J E C T, D I G I TA L FRIVOLOUS THINGS B r e t Vo l l m e r Staying in bed past the alarm. Chasing fleeting sleep; squeezing eyes tight to trap scraps of dreams. Ignoring the shriek or buzz or hum or preprogrammed drone demanding today! Pawing at the phone. Gazing at its glassy face and infinite pagination. Avoiding eye-contact by rubbing the electric rectangle. Driving downhill with the windows open. Coasting down empty slopes on a bike. Stretching out one or both hands to catch the wind as it slides past the metal carapace of the car. Whistling, humming, absent-minded beatboxing. Doodling in the margins; embroidering pages with graphite. Watching the ACs sweat bead into rivulets that waterfall to the ground. Allowing the sound of water to bend and shape your daydreams like a blacksmith at an anvil. Imagining what it feels like to skydive while sitting still. Wondering what its like to drown in oil as you fall asleep. Dropping coins into fountains, wells or into the yawning, funnel-shaped vortex at the mall. Watching your penny, nickel or dime as it drifts to a bed of shimmering tile. Listening to the reverberation of black plastic as your coin is swallowed by the injection-molded whirlpool. Explaining the rules of Monopoly to a child. Teaching a friend how to enjoy being alone. Plumbing songs on the radio for flashes of insight. Watching popular movies with the sound off. Scrolling through Netflix, creating a list of titles youll never touch. Watching and rewatching the same source of comfort instead. Subjecting your time and mind to the mercy of Big Tech algorithms. Creating a playlist containing every song that appears when you search the name of a hometown youve never visited. Googling satellite photos of every street youve ever lived on or everywhere you hope to go. Clapping at the theater when the movie ends; heaping applause onto the deaf speakers of the Dolby digital surround. Clapping when the plane lands: exalting in the statistically given safety of day-to-day air travel. Inventing new lyrics to songs that are already written. Inventing new lyrics specifically about the dog and singing them to her with self-satisfied vibrato. ~3~ Singing those same songs while gently bunching the folds of her dog face in both your hands and, with precious coos, enthusiastically affirming to her the utter perfection of her pretty image and generous existence. Letting the dog outside on frosty autumn nights just to let her back in again. Feeling the cool velvet of her floppy ears warm between your fingers. Trick-or-treating. Caroling. Congratulating and celebrating. Decorating the house for a single day of the season. Making wishes on your birthday; channeling unspoken desire into layers of cake and flaming frosting. Wondering later, alone, whether youre a broken vessel. Imagining elaborate and fantastic backstories for the cat; vividly rendering in giddy words his Dickensian life before adoption. Watching him sleep and foolishly wondering if in his dreams he remembers his names from his preceding lives or if he can gaze across the chasm of consciousness to see the details of those remaining. Letting his gentle purrs pin you to the couch. Learning a language because you like the shape of its letters. Never being entirely sure how to spell your own middle name. Listing names of imaginary bands, babies or pets. Writing lists of frivolous things. Getting drunk. Getting high. Praying. Meditating. Reading or writing illegible poetry in the silver and obscure light of a disinterested moon. Doing any of these things but just for the sheer fun of it. Letting your hands caress the contours of another persons back. Feeling homesick for somewhere that isnt your home. Feeling nostalgic for a misremembered past. Peeling away the metaphors that exist beneath religion. Imagining the shape of the human soul. Hoping that it has a shape; fearing that its a vacuum or an injection-molded whirlpool in which we drop the currency of our time to watch it spiral away. Choosing to picture it as a fountain; continuing to make wishes. ~4~ M I K AY L A T H O M P S O N , O R G A N I C V E C TO R S E L F I E , D I G I TA L FIRMAMENT C o r i n a Pa r k s The snow fell in large clumps (weightless, like a feather), towards the ground where they lay, hair spread in white heather. Teeth displayed, lips apart, joy inside their youthful hearts. Mirrored firmament in their eyes: silver skies, hands entwined a memory between sisters, inscribed for all of time. ~6~ WE ARE FRIENDS. WE ARE FAMILY. Jiwoo K im What is wrong with Japan? I asked, my mother upset, Mom, nothing gets me angrier than Shinzo Abe spitting those words from his mouth. In the face of all these facts, he is still denying the Japanese governments explicit involvement in coercing countless Korean women into sexual slavery during World War II. I continued to lash out, not even breathing once, as Shinzo Abe, the Prime Minister of Japan, tried to justify the immoral acts that were perpetrated upon Koreans during Japans colonization of Korea. He went as far as to claim that the governments actions were meant to positively influence Korea as a whole. My mom hesitated with a bitter smile on her face, Well, I actually feel sorry for them. I was a little surprised and curious about what she meant and started barking right away. For what? For having such a dumb prime minister? I bet they are all the same people who dont even give a damn about any of these issues. The next day, my parents suggested that I go to Japan for a year as an exchange student. At that moment, I thought they were crazy; and of course, my immediate answer was never. However, after a week of consideration, I was on my flight to a so-closebut-yet-so-far country: Japan. Having lived in Japan for about a year when I was thirteen years old, I came to believe in the power of sincerity. The power that can unite people who seemed to be enemies for life. Thanks to them, I believe that I can be friends with anyone in any country if they are sincerely caring for each other and loving our differences. Before leaving my house, my parents waved at me and said, We hope you have a great time there! I responded, Guys, just pray that your daughter doesnt get into a fight. When I arrived at Hiroshima Airport, Haruki Yori, the professor who suggested this program to my parents, was waiting for me. I went to the right side of his car and waited for him to unlock the car door, having forgotten that in Japan, cars have the drivers seat on their right side. ~7~ So I guess you wanna drive? Gotta hold tight, he joked as he pretended to toss the key to me. For a second, I could see my father from his grin. His jokes helped to ease the anxiety I was feeling from the stress of airport security checks in an unfamiliar country. When we got to school, my host parents, Maki and Akio, were waiting for me; they greeted me as if I was their long-lost daughter. Then principal Hitoshi took me to the auditorium where all the students, who I remember as angels, had gathered to welcome me. Even though my house was only five minutes away from school on foot, my friends Hayate, Miho, and Yuya came to my house every morning to walk to school with me. On the weekends, my host parents took me to places where I could learn and experience Japanese culture. Everyone did their best to gift me wonderful memories while I was staying in Japan. Even though I could not speak Japanese at first, all the neighbors and friends in school used body language, English, and translation apps to communicate with me. They expressed their love towards South Korea and told me that the majority of the Japanese disagree with their government on the contentiousness between Japan and Korea including the issue of Comfort Women. As opposed to what I thought, they insisted that their country is responsible for the victims who are alive. I could not believe that I was in the country I hated just a few days ago. Despite the fact that we do not share a language, culture, environment, and the fact that our countries were often called enemies, I could feel the sincerity in Japanese people. I could not find any selfishness, ignorance, obstinacy, or inhumanity in them. I realized that I should not judge people according to my perception of their leader. As I boarded my flight back to Korea, Japan was not a so-close-yet-so-far-awaycountry anymore. Instead, it was my other home where my friends and family, who had gifted me with this valuable lesson, live. ~8~ THE BOOKSTORE CAF K iran Lakshman In December I took my mother to the bookstore where she bought calendars for everyone, but she died in February. Did anyone want to rip out January and make it last forever? We had bookstore caf mochas together for the first time, shell-shocked but dipping our biscotti. She asked what would become of me if she were gone. Sometimes special people just get lost in this world. Someones book hit his table as he turned to stare. I didnt answer. My mothers brown eyes under her red chenille cap. The filo doughs whipped fillings inside the pastry case. ~9~ PAT T Y S W YG E RT, B I S O N S T U D I E S , I N K O N G L A S S I N E DAUGHTER M a r y C l yd e B i s s e t t Am I my fathers daughter? The one who shares my blood. He wrote the game, said money is a good thing. With this, we will all be happy But Im not happy. Here I stand, pushing twenty-one. Lack of change in my pockets. One-hundred-pound weight on my chest. Am I my mothers daughter? The one who raised me. Held my hand, fought my monsters alongside me. Cleared paths for my destruction, giver of strength Though Im not strong. Unhinged, shut down without notice. I am without love. Rusted pennies in a well, thoughtless diagnoses. One truth finds peace, I am no ones daughter. ~ 11 ~ POEMS Danielle Campbell Salt. Your love forces me into spaces. The tiniest spaces. Spaces where my wounds fill with salt. Stone. The words you say They stick to me They turn part of me to stone Mother. I always think of you. In the stars, in the plants. Mother. You are my mother. My air is because of you. I breathe. Lavender. ~ 12 ~ HUSH MA PUCE Julianna Skuba Before that singular moment, that ripened moment, Camille had been standing down a thin alley off of Rue de Lorne, leaning against the sandstone wall of the Martineau building. She had been watching the ethereal dance of smoke released from her parted lips, wasting the last moments of her break when Pols text came in, his words autocorrected to nonsense again. She smiled. I think I need to learn this new language, she thought. Camille always seemed to receive a message from Pol around this time each day, and rarely could she make out what he was trying to say; she always assumed it was nice and thoughtful although his words were perpetually turned inside out. Camille thought his accent much too thick for the phone to understand, and he muttered, too, but this text was different. This message marked the end of what Camille would later refer to as the time of angels. The era of sweetness and roses, albeit brief, when supper was well-considered, and the windows didnt rattle with the cold of ghosts knocking, when she and Pol would talk about a future that was innocent and shapeless, a time when Jonathan skipped to school humming a triumphant tune. Camille tried to piece together Pols message, but all she could gather was something about calling him. It seemed very much unlike him. She was obliged to get back to her desk and attend to the ceaseless waves of incoming calls that she would answer to the best of her ability. This was her second day on the job, customer service, and Camille felt she needed this opportunity. She threw away her entire break smoking when she had already told everyone she had quit, and she knew her new employer, M. Ronhuer, would not look kindly upon her calling Pol right then. She had a feeling the office had hired her because of the desperation in her eyes and the high probability she would not leave her position for quite some time. Even though her desperation was no longer all that urgent, Pol was there to catch her if she were to slip, the years of not knowing how she was going to manage her basic life and tend to Johnathans, an alley cat life, had rewired her. Her responses were reiterations of this history, which even Pols stability could not erase. Camille had put up a single photo: Johnathan as a small boy smiling with utter delight-holding a duckling so tenderly in his little hands. The complete abandonment to joy on his face gave her hope. That was why she had taped it above her computer screen, where her eyes could casually gaze upon his happiness. It was the reminder she still needed when the sky was the color of ink and foreboding, a Johnathan who could find light under the darkest rock. Camille quickly texted Pol back, Ill call when Im out. Allo? she said. Camille had just closed up the office, and she could hear him on the other side of the phone. Allo? Pol? Camille could hear him breathing and weeping, barely, but Pol would not speak a word. He couldnt bring himself to tell her what had happened, that he was suffering a maelstrom of devastation. The helplessness he felt shook him so that he couldnt even find himself. He was cast out to sea and ~ 13 ~ wasnt ready to have her see him like this, to have her try to assuage his confusion and regret. He needed to wrestle with it for a time, but he also knew he couldnt say this to her. He knew Camille would insist on being a part of his sorrow and that she would take offense from being excluded. Up to this singular moment, this ripe moment, Pol had been accustomed to feeling pain alone. He had conducted his life in such a way that not only had he nobody he could say such things to, but in a pivotal moment such as this, a time when all things ceased to be the same forever more, he couldnt even manage small inconsequential utterances. It was different now, though. He had to remind himself of this, that he was sharing a life, his unexceptional life. Perhaps, he could soften to her? Please, be home soon, Pol managed to say and hung up. Camille and Pol had met completely by happenstance, on a day that was golden and wasteful, glorious and so god-awful that they would both laugh a little at the absurdity of it all when, later, someone would just so happen to ask. Camille had been walking down Rue Saint Paul, her skirt and hair whipping about her. Her shoulders were tightly held as she clutched the collar of her jacket up around her pale, graceful neck. She was walking briskly, but blinded by the angled beams of the sun. She had no need to see each step, really, she knew the street well--where the stones jutted up in the sidewalk, extruded by too many unbearable winters, when to cross to avoid the clochard asking her to spare some change, which she felt she could not possibly spare, the wafting of respectable perfume from the woman with the tidy hair who always seemed to be a few paces ahead each afternoon. Camille had known this street before most of the shops and cafes had civilized the neighborhood near to where her father had worked and to where she had walked every day after school to meet him. Her weathered father had worked in machine shops most of his life. This shop, the shop on Rue Monseigneur Gauvreau, made valves: stopcock valves, spherical valves for holding tanks and cisterns, leaf valves, marine this and thats. Camille was never all too interested. Sometimes she would have to wait for her father, James. She would stand out of the way, by the industrial tilt windows peering through to the bustling street below, dreaming of opportunities outside of her life. The smell of shaped steel, sweat, men, cigarettes, and the incessant din of heavy machinery is what she remembered most about her fathers work. James would gather his belongings measuredly: lunch box, woolen cap and his coat. He would clock out and imperceptibly nod to the floor manager, perhaps to a co-worker or two and leave as if he hadnt worked there for years on end. Camille and her father would cross the street and stand at the bus stop, no matter the weather, usually silently and wait for the metrobus to take them to their semblance of a home on the outskirts of the city. On the day that Camille and Pol met, she was older, no longer a schoolgirl, no longer meeting her father after work. Those days were gone, as was her father. James had passed ten years earlier on a bright afternoon. Back then, Sundays were not a day of rest. She did all the chores while her father watched trout fishing on the tv. On that bright Sunday, cupped within his worn lounge chair, his legs stiffened; he wet his pants; he gasped all while sitting before his television and quietly passed to ~ 14 ~ the monotone ramblings of his favorite show. Camille thought his heart had finally broken all the way. The day she and Pol met, walking down Rue Saint Paul, a few paces behind the respectable perfumed lady with the tidy hair, Camille witnessed a young boy walk out into the rushing street. The beautiful young boy with angelic curls stepped out into the Rue Saint Paul, disoriented at first, as if he didnt understand the consequences of his actions. He then saw Camille distraught and moving towards him; he stared at her, a bambi, not able to move. His blue eyes caught her off guard. A workman, driving his van with a ladder strapped to its side, was talking on his phone, perhaps to a future client or arguing with his wife, and was distracted and didnt notice the beautiful young boy with angelic curls and blue eyes. Camille ran to the boy, now limp and horrifically bloodied, and she held him. The traffic was now still, and the crowd that had gathered, whispered, looked on as if Camille was the boys negligent mother. She indeed felt negligent. Camille had seen the young beautiful boy step out into the street; she had seen the van with its preoccupied driver rolling hopelessly towards him. She had locked eyes with the boy, as if he had known her and held infinitesimal trust in her; she had seen the impact and the boys body jettison into the air only to land lifeless on the cobblestone street. No other mother came to the boy, no relative nor guardian; no one except a tall, beige man. The man took off his warmed coat and covered the boy who lay in Camilles arms. When the ambulance arrived, he gently encouraged her to give the boy over to them, to let them care for his small lost life. He then drove her home and wrote on a scrap of paper his name and number, just in case she needed to talk. This was how Camille and Pol first met. In retrospect, it all seemed to have unfolded as if it had been skillfully choreographed, but at the time, it was serendipitous, sweet love found in a hapless tragedy. Billowing clouds of exhaust from the traffic made its way to Camilles lungs. She felt she couldnt breathe and dug around in her cavernous bag to find her inhaler. The time was 5:14, and the sun and its warmth had already dropped behind the Michaud Building. Camille stood at the bus stop alone, the cold of October finding her vulnerabilities. She lit her last cigarette. She coughed; it burned, while a single street light turned on, flickered until finally it shone with a steady light. The bus was running late, and Camille was not dressed sensibly. The wind ran up her skirt like an aggressive lover. It found her weakest link, her pale, graceful neck, and she could not hide from its bite. Camille, standing at the bus stop, shivering, felt hollowed, emptied and utterly alone. She could see she was surrounded by hundreds, filling their cars with private thoughts. In that moment though, her past trumped the present; she was invisible to the world. Her cigarette was her last match, she imagined, La petite marchande dallumettes. Somehow and predictably so, the dark and the cold and the great expanse of anonymity would always bring this on, bring her to this vacant abandoned place. And then the bus would arrive. As soon as she was seated, the hissing of the hydraulic brakes released, the familiar used smell of others, and the profound sense of protection she found riding public transportation, Camille came back to the comfort of her life, to her dear Johnathan and to Pol. ~ 15 ~ The city slid by her, lights slowly burning, Quebec beginning to glow. Camille could not admire its beauty that night; it would have felt adulterous somehow. Something was amiss; in fact, something was quite wrong. Pol needed her, it seemed. She had thought Pol was completed. He had a friend, a hobby and job selling insurance that was marginally fulfilling. She and Johnathan were a pleasant surprise to his life that he still struggled with from time to time. Pol had been living a life alone for many years, by choice he had told her, but had never fully elaborated. To have a few mysteries between them was like unfulfilled desire. It kept the embers burning between them as the rhythm of domestic life had settled in. Pol had fast become accustomed to being a father to Johnathan, and they could hardly be separated. It was a double love affair for Pol, with different parts of his heart warming, different doors unlocking, shelves dusted off. Pol said he felt masculine. When he revealed this to Camille, she noticed, for the first time, a glint in his eyes. Perhaps the beige man was beginning to bloom. Metrobus 60 continued along its route making its predictable stops. The flow of strangers off and on were restful for Camille, like the to and fro of waves from the sea. She could lose herself to thought, usually, but tonight was different. She remembered the evening, when they were walking through the park and the mist from the fontaine de le Foi touched her face and rested upon her eyelashes. Pol held her and said so bravely that he wanted to protect and care for her and Johnathan. Behold a gentleman who knows not what I really am nor what Ive done, thought Camille. She remembered on that day, in that moment, vowing to not use him up, but to take a chance on something with Pol that could very well be love. Camille would be there for him, for Pol, until they both turned to dust. The metrobus came to a stop. Camille braced for the cold and walked to their rowhouse, second from the corner. Pol came to the door. He had been waiting and heard Camilles footsteps as she approached. He opened the door and stood there; she could see that he had been crying. Tell me, Pol, she whispered, tell me, and kissed his brow and embraced him. Pol had already given Johnathan dinner and brought out a plate for Camille. They sat in silence while she ate. Camille finally put down her fork and knife. Pol, I cannot eat like this, she said under her breath. She didnt want to involve Johnathan in what she herself didnt understand. Okay, Pol whispered. Lets go into the dark. I can speak to you in the dark. Pol led Camille into their bedroom, drew the blinds and turned off the lights. Lets take off our clothes. Do you mind? he asked. They both undressed and met underneath the blankets. Camille held Pol and ran her hands through his hair while he cried quietly. Theyre both gone, he said finally. My mother and father, both. No pictures of them hung on their walls, no conversations were shared over the phone, no cards sent, no wedding gifts received. Camille, I was not a good son. I am ~ 16 ~ guilty. I should have been there more. I should have been there for them--forgiven my father along the way, somehow. Done the work. Pols tears were rivers. Puddles began to form on the bed and then began pooling on the floor. Im relieved, too. I feel burdened and free. I feel untethered because I knew they were always there and now theyre not. Camille and Pol lay there together for a long time until neither could tell who was who. The police said they thought it was asphyxiation. Our neighbor, Monsieur Bouchard, found them. It had been a few days since he had seen them, so he went to check in on them. They were both in their beds, he said, looking as if they were having nice dreams. A gas leak couldnt be found; the police are at a loss. And who are we! Eating, fucking, laughing and carrying on with our lives for the past few days while my mother and father were forgotten, dead in their beds waiting patiently for their one and only son to remember them. Camille whispered, How were you to know, shhhh.., as she held him closer. Maudine Anne-Marie Michaude, that is what her stone will say. She was always Maude to everyone, except me. She would have skinned me if she heard me call her Maude. She loved fixing hair, making people feel good about themselves. Arichat is small, you know, and for a time she was the only coifeuse. What she loved most, and I know this - she needed to be a part of it all, to know everybodys business. Pols tears were becoming words, migrating like a flock of starlings to his lips. He was being transported to a time without tribulation, telling more then than memory served. Camille lay there, holding him, silently, daring not to even breath, enjoying this time of weakness for him. Pol began to quietly sing: Dors, dors, le petit bibi cest le beau ptit bibi maman. Dors, dors, dors, dors, dors, le bibi maman, hush, hush, Ma Puce. ~ 17 ~ R E I D M O U L I S , VA L U E S T I L L- L I F E , C H A R C OA L O N PA P E R THE OLD GUITARIST Gale Davis Hunched over, barely alive. Desolate. Alone, except for the guitar that rests atop his hallowed chest. Skeleton-like fingers move across wires as if petting air. The old man leans toward his instrument rockling gently to its rhythm a beat as precious as his heart. He is silent. No need to speak. A man of subtle refinement only credits the instrument not himself. His pride rests in owning one possession. ~ 19 ~ M A L I K H A K H A N , C O LO S S E U M , C H A R C OA L INNERSITES B r e t Vo l l m e r Ive heard my internal workings: a stomach that sounds like a haunted dog. Veins full of gunpowder and pasta water irrigated by empty ventricles that cage an imaginary city...or neighborhood? ...really nothing that busy-maybe a valley. Or actually, whats within my skin is, like, (and maybe you feel similarly) a derelict fireworks factory on the vacant plains of grassy Oklahoma: a vast and flammable savanna where the summer sun drinks every drop of earthy liquor from the planets roots. And the factorys staffed by a single sleep-deprived smoker who eats TV and speed to stay awake, and takes regular breaks to inhale and grind their eyeline against the dry horizon. Watch with us-together well stamp red cigarette butts into tender earth and shiver, because its night now, as the sparks take flight like vicious pixies. ~ 21 ~ A LY S S A M A R C K E S A N O, S U C C U L E N T, AC RY L I C O N C A N VA S THE GIANT SUGAR MAPLE TREE Dana Cherry Growing up in the country, summers were spent alternating between my grandparents homes while my mom and dad worked. While my memories are full of wonderful times spent at both homes, there is something special about the days spent at my granddaddy and nannies home. A tree. A giant and beautiful tree. It was over one hundred and fifty years old if the stories my granddaddy told me were true. He told stories better than anybody Ive ever known. Filled with colorful details and sure to make us all laugh, his stories almost always added a new detail with each time. This particular tree was supposedly planted by my granddaddys mother when she was eagerly anticipating the return of her husband from serving in the war. The sugar maple tree was planted right by the driveway; it was out close enough to the road so that hed notice it when he got home. The symbolism of a fresh start. This little tree had quite a lot to live up to. Boy, did it ever do that and surpass all expectations as well. Some of my earliest memories are of my older cousins and I playing under the shade of this massive leafy green tree. We collected the helicopter seeds from beneath the tree and tossed their fragile bodies in the air and watched them flitter down, swaying back and forth, before coming to rest softly back on the ground. Sometimes we had a contest to see which helicopter seedling could stay in the air the longest. We cheered on those little floating seeds as if they were aware that they were competing and that our cheers would influence how long they could stay airborne. We hung a giant rope on one of the lower hanging branches and used this rope swing to fly back and forth without a care in the world. We looped a foot through the bottom of the rope where it had been neatly tied. My cousins pushed each other as high as they could before running under them to avoid being hit by the swinging person that was hanging on for dear life. We laughed deep belly laughs as we watched each other try to navigate. Careful not to hit the giant trunk of the massive tree. Back when I was growing up, kids didnt hang out in the house with adults. We were told to go out to play and we would be called to come inside when it was time. In the heat of the summer, the temperatures would easily be in the 90s. No worries for us though. Because under that tree was guaranteed to be at least a 15 degree ~ 23 ~ drop in the heat just from the shade provided. On days when my granddaddy had run out to the grocery store, we would have the added treat of popsicles, the kind with two popsicle sticks that you could break in half if you were particularly careful. I always wanted the cherry popsicle, and I was the youngest grandchild on this side of the family. If you follow where I am going here, youll guess that I always got that cherry popsicle even if one of the other cousins asked for it. Sometimes I would try to split my popsicle and share, but it rarely worked out the way it should, and often there was a piece of my juicy red popsicle hitting the ground under our tree. I had a specific favorite part of the old maple tree. I dont know if it was because of its age, or its size, but the tree had the most massive above ground roots all around its trunk. Some of the roots formed into perfect little bowls, and when there was a mud puddle to be found, or a bird bath to snag a little cup of water. You could be sure that the best mud pies ever made could be found right there under those branches. I could sit there patting out my pies to different sizes and shapes for hours. I would present them to my older cousins or my older sister. They were never too impressed. My nannie and granddaddy both appreciated a good mud pie when they were given one though, and I can still feel my cheeks burning from smiling so big after one of them complimented me on this being the best mud pie they had ever seen. Every single time. And then, I grew up. My grandfather passed away. I got married and had five children of my own. One constant through all of that was the big old sugar maple still standing proudly, announcing itself silently to all that passed by on their travels. People were able to find my grandmas house just by being told to keep an eye out for the beautiful tree in front of the old farm house in the curve. My children fell in love with the very tree that I had loved so much as a little girl. Each time wed go for a visit, I swear my heart did its own little happy song watching my kids run in circles around the trunk of the tree. Theyd pick up the little seedlings but didnt have nearly as much fun watching them float as I had at their age. They never understood the art of a good mud pie. Twelve years ago this May, my dad called to tell me that my nannie wasnt doing well at all. I went to see her, spent time by her side, and told her I loved her. She wanted to be home. The place she had spent almost all her life and did not want to go to a hospital. Shed dealt with heart issues and knew there was nothing more doctors could do for her. I stepped off the front porch and went and sat under my tree. I cried. I felt a strange comfort sitting under the tree, and somehow felt everything would be okay. After all, my nannie herself said it was her time to go. She passed shortly after. A couple months later, my dad called me again. This time it wasnt someone that wasnt doing well. My beloved tree, my shady solace, my playmate, had been struck ~ 24 ~ by lightning during a storm the night before. The lightning caused significant damage to the trunk of the tree, causing it to become unstable. Because of its size there was concern that if left alone. This tree was a symbol of my childhood that may fall onto the house. The only thing older than that tree around there was the house. It had to be protected. The tree had to be taken down before it could fall and destroy the family home. My dad knew how much that tree meant to me. He said he could wait a couple of weeks so I could come by and get some pictures of it. How could this be happening? How could it have happened? My nannie had just passed away. That tree was my safe place and I couldnt lose it. I understood logically why the tree had to be taken down. I couldnt wrap my mind around it emotionally, though. Where would I ever find that same peacefulness if my tree and its leafy shelter were gone? I went by and took pictures. I took them from every side. I tried to get close ups of the most sacred parts, my dear mud pie roots. I cried. The day came and the tree was taken down. Piece by piece. My dad chose to have the company leave the stump around 4 foot high. My sister and I went by and planted beautiful perennials in the base of the trunk. We lovingly added soil with extra nutrients. Our tree would still have life in it one way or the other! Our little flowery stump is a loving tribute not only to that special tree but to both of my grandparents as well. When I was finally able to look at the pictures I had taken that day before the tree came down, I was surprised. I was disappointed and sad. The pictures didnt capture how special that tree was. They didnt tell a story the way I had hoped they would. They didnt convey the importance of every branch, every helicopter seedling, the rope swing, or the rooted caverns. None of it. Somehow though, I still felt such love, adoration, and fondness to this tree. Thats the moment that it hit me. My memories of that tree, of my granddaddy and his never-ending stories, of my nannie, they are all alive every day in my heart. And they are as clear and as special as they were when the tree was standing. My grandparents still feel alive. I understand how lucky I am to have those memories, and now peace is within me. ~ 25 ~ TAY LO R B R OW N , C R O S S H ATC H I N G S T I L L- L I F E , I N K O N PA P E R ENTITLEMENT M a r y C l yd e B i s s e t t Congratulations, Youve won this round. My back still aches, your blood-stained knife remains In hand, I tell myself you know not what you do. You dont mean to diminish my pride. Consciously steal my light so you can take center stage. Hold my hand to hold me back. I build you up; I built your castle. Tirelessly laid brick by brick. Now you sit in your tower with watchful eye. My presence locked away. Thrown with the key, never to be seen again. Congratulations, Ive lost The game. My frail body gave out, tired Of holding you too high. Unscathed And victorious, you needed my pride more than me. Slyly replaced my light with a broken bulb. A relentless pat on the back for scarring mine. ~ 27 ~ BEHIND CLOSED DOORS Gale Davis My classroom was located on the first floor, precariously abutting the nuns lounge. It is, has been, and probably will be the type of place where one neednt linger. A sense of boundary permeates the space. There is little need for signage atop the door to indicate Private--everyone knows. Even new students get first hand info on where not to go. Being nave is not acceptable. You see, the gist of the matter is control. We are unanimous in the opinion that losing control even for a brief span of time, might lead to some type of rebellion on our part. So, in the interest of civil rest even during break period, the nuns never leave the premises. Mind you, they would not have to go far. Their convent is next door. Just a few steps and they could be free of us as well. I would call that a win/win! It might do some of them a world of good to let go--let their hair down. It is probably very difficult for the young novice sisters to stay so vigilant. Perhaps they are tempted to toss their veil over a chair or let out one walloping non-sisterly belch. My goodness, can you just hear that one in the confessional! How many Hail Marys does it take to erase being normal? No, they insist on hunkering down in full penguin garb within earshot of us feral girls. No need to give mischief a season! Ever readyever steady is their mantra. Besides, it is difficult to maintain the Silence Code when out of range. Every student is keenly aware that the nuns revere silence. To hold ones tongue is akin to winning an Olympic medal. It does not come easy. Years of practice, discipline, and self-denial are involved. Yes, silence is golden! And we are taught from day one not to settle for anything less than gold. That is why we work so hard for those shiny stars on our papers. We are driven to the highest standard. Of course, sometimes we do forget that our mouths were made to stay shut (except when eating or answering a question). That is why all the walls are lined with gentle reminders to think, think, think. No need to speak. Walking does not require talking. Silence is a virtue; whereas, talking is a weakness of the flesh. One fateful day, I remember coming out of my class next to the nuns lounge. It was already five minutes into break time. The nuns were closeted behind the dark oak doors. It took a few extra minutes to collect my stuff before heading out. I raced down the hallway. As I was buzzing along, one of my laces unraveled. I tripped. Books tumbled out of my grip like a rockslide onto the slick tiled floor. Papers neatly stuffed in my folder leaped in a wild flurry. A paper trail dotted the floor. Some~ 28 ~ where, in the deepest crevice of my wicked Catholic heart, an unmentionable word escaped. Damn! I yelled. Before I could slap my hand over my mouth, that word flew like a torpedo searching its target. I froze. My feet would not move. It was as if someone poured mushy cement into my immaculately clean black and white oxfords. If death has a face, it would have looked like me that day. I am doomed! I know that heathen word echoed through the walls. I began to imagine every foreseeable consequence. Of course, confession was paramount. I would have to go to the church office immediately. Confession had to be arranged right away. My soul was in mortal danger, should I die before admitting my behavior. Following this, the priest or Mother Superior would telephone my parents for an urgent conference in keeping with their responsibility for raising a respectable Catholic girl. My parents would thus be grilled on how they spoke, what TV was permissible, etc. Of course, I would be sent home with extra homework such as a one hundred word essay dealing with controlling the tongue. The cherry on the cake would be public disgrace. That would be something like forfeiting free time during breaks and lunch to mop the floors or some other noticeable penance to dissuade others from hanging around me or worst yet, having a dirty vocabulary. It wouldnt be pretty, for sure. Dirty words require sanitizing. Theres nothing like scrubbing the floor on ones knees to gain wisdom. I waited. I prayed silently. I bargained with God for a reprieve. Then, in almost a whisper I heard the most beautiful sound. Behind closed doors, those sisters were in unison offering up prayers for my forgiveness and well being. With tears in my eyes, I heard their soft petitions to God for mercy as, She knows not what she is doing. Amen. ~ 29 ~ K A R E N S I E G R I S T, R E C L I N I N G N U D E , I N K O N PA P E R CATALYST Christopher Cutshaw It sharpens the mind and rouses the spirit. The woodcutters blood, a daydreamers grievance. The milk of a cow, a sweet plants confections. Pairs well with the brew, that promises heaven. ~ 31 ~ SPREADING MY WINGS Alicia Williams- Prince I am beautifully made by the universe. Living my wildest dream. Now unconfined, becoming a butterfly. I am the stillness before dawn. Glowing brighter than the sun. Now unconfined, gently fluttering by. I am reclaiming my purpose. Fearlessly finding my calm. Now unconfined, seeking my happiness. I am spreading my wings of glory. Preparing to take flight. Now unconfined, fluttering high in the sky. ~ 32 ~ TAY LO R B R OW N , PA RT N E R P O RT R A I T, I N K O N PA P E R SOMETIMES, FOR FUN B r e t Vo l l m e r I skip to the end of a poem and then decide whether to read it. You can do that here -- not that you need my permission -but I typically miss the music and the image, metaphored here as buckets of broken beads and bells and shells thrown down a sandy staircase, scrubbed clean by antiseptic sunshine dripping from the horn of a magic goat, one that doesnt scream like WiFi but sings like vinyl, greasy syllables to ignite pianos and burn paper-dry bad vibes in an origami skull. And as we approach this middles end, Amalthea (the goat) begins to strut along a snare drum stretched across a sullen sea to chew on aluminum and croon echoes into a jungle sinkhole half-filled with holy rainwater. And whether you think that glass is half empty or half full, understand you are the vessel. ~ 34 ~ ~ 35 ~  ...

... Spring 2019 vol. XI Piedmont Virginia Community College Spring 2019 vol. XI Piedmont Virginia Community College CR EDITS CLUB PRESIDENTS Wyatt Ernst Ella Chin EDITORS Elizabeth Phan Rainah Gregory Aleena Haidari Kara Larson Nathan Morris Isaac Rowlingson ART DIRECTOR Aaron Miller COVER ART Kelly Creighton COVER DESIGN Tara Scott MAGAZINE LAYOUT Nathalie Ando Tori Thomas Melissa Reid Taylor Abajian Dara Kupke CLUB ADVISOR Jenny Koster ABOUT The Fall Line, Spring 2019, is the 11 th volume, selected, edited, and produced by Writers Unite, the PVCC Creative Writing Club 1 In Love 2 Recipe for Me 3 Hawk by Tori Thomas, Graphite Drawing 4 A Fork in the Road 7 Rob by Dara Kupke, Photography 8 Revolution 10 The Fall Line by Taylor Abajian and Tori Thomas, Digital 11 A Villanelle to Dad 12 Bittersweet 20 Small Guy by Tara Scott, Digital Art 21 Backstitch 22 A Love Poem 23 Zelda the Cat by Carra Hammond, Pen and Ink 24 Sick 25 Mother by Cheryl Deangelis, Pen and Ink 26 Blur of Colors 27 Geisha IV by Nathalie Ando, Graphite 28 Comparison 29 Haiku by Dara Kupke, Pen and Ink 30 The Freedom Rails 35 Winter by Taylor Abajian, Photography 36 To Think of Time 38 Madam Butterfly by Melissa Reid, Oil Paint 39 Lines 41 I-Love-Yous 41 Geisha V by Nathalie Ando, Graphite by Marie Lotter by Kara Larson by Rainah Gregory by Isaac Rowlingson by Natasha L. Maready by Jude Bolick by Alysia Townsley by Kari Zacharias by Gil Somers by MyKaela Morris by Rainah Gregory by Alex Terpilowski by Isaac Rowlingson by Scott Williamson by Gil Somers In Love by Marie Lotter Im in love with many things: The breath before a song starts, The smell of an autumn morning, The moment before kissing someone For the first time, A young couple holding each other, An old couple grasping hands, The wave just as it crests, The first shock of rain in the summer, Every beautiful soul I meet, The inhale before loves confession. Im in love with The silence of a morning so early Not even the birds are awake. Where the still night sky is Diluted with blue. When my soul is at rest And I may think of all that I love, And how I am in love with life. 1 Recipe for Me by Kara Larson A couple in Virginia, A house in Goochland, Circumstances and sixteen acres Begin a recipe for me. A dash of sarcasm With a pinch of scatterbrain Let simmer a few years Then mix some more Harsh words from someone close A harsher blade from myself Friends and favorite songs stepped in Ill only wear bracelets from now on A church in Short Pump, Five older siblings, favorite books, Choice friends, Gramies bracelet Gave what you see today Still a sarcastic scatterbrain But with a craving for travel, A want for adventure, And a God to praise. The Chef knows what Hes doing But there are more ingredients to add. This recipe isnt finished yet. 2 Hawk by Tori Thomas, Graphite Drawing 3 A Fork in the Road by Rainah Gregory Fog hung like a damp towel in the humid clot of night. The moisture caught between the mountains compressed my tired body as I stumbled down the road. Rocks crunched under my weathered shoes, pulling me away from my dormant Honda carcass. Dead. How could my car shut down in the middle of nowhere? Leaving me to roam amongst the spiked bushed forest, with its gaping voids of oblivion carrying an infinite supply of secrets I wish to stay a stranger to. After what felt like centuries, my eye caught a fire lit in my peripheral vision. Without warning, my body lurched toward this mysterious beacon. Dauntless. As I approached, I laid eyes on three beings. Hi, spoke one. Um, hi, I responded. My voice stuck dry. You okay there? spoke a woman, a long chocolate braid trailing her spine. My car broke down. You look tired, man, spoke the last of the trio. A red worn hat creased his ginger locks. Yeah, Ive been walking for a while. Well, welcome! Take a seat! said the first. I dont want to intrude Nonsense! I complied, sitting myself on a fallen tree. I felt their eyes peel me apart. I wasnt prepared for such judgement. You have nice eyes, spoke the red-hatted man. This took me aback. Um, thank you, I managed to squeeze out. The woman was now leaning forward, tracing her eyes from muscle to muscle on my limbs. Do you work out 4 Dan, I breathed. The first man glared at the woman hard and cold. He then turned to me, his face softening like microwaved butter. Sorry about that, Dan. They havent been outside the campsite for a while. Meeting new people can become a bombardment of questions. He wore a deep blue shirt. It reminded me of the ocean. I dont know why. Maybe because I was dehydrated. So, do you like camping, Dan? Yeah, actually. Its been a while, but I loved it as a kid. We love camping! erupted the woman. Her eyes gleamed in the misted moonlight. Its a way of life for us, said the red-hatted man. How long have you been out here? Three years, said the woman. Wow, thats amazing! And survival has been Tough, Dan, spoke the first. There are months where well have fantastic weather conditions and a thriving food supply. But then there are times where we are tested. Like now. Now? Its been a few weeks since our last decent meal. Really? Weve been eating a lot of plants, whispered the woman in disgust. Apparently not a vegan. We can probably photosynthesize by now, gruffed the red hatted man. The fire flamed, igniting his freckles like specs of paprika across his cheeks. What a view you have. I gasped as I stood to survey the mountains. Take your shoes off, said the red-hatted man. Feel the grass under your toes. Its life changing, breathed the woman. I complied. The woman threw me a spray can. 5 Garlic and olive oil? I read. Its a repellent. She gleamed. Do your wrists while youre at it. So why this life? Whats in it for you? I was intrigued now. Well, to be honest with you, Dan, started the first, were quite different from city folk. We have different tastes, said the red-hatted man. We arent really accepted into society, clipped the woman. How do you mean? I scoffed. People dont understand us, said the first. Whats there to understand? We practice Cannibalism. I breathed a sigh of relief. Me, too. 6 Rob by Dara Kupke, Photography 7 Revolution by Isaac Rowlingson The dream dominates the dreamer and the flag goes with the foul land the watch is in boiling water and we hold the egg in our hand Dare do all that becomes one who dares do more is none within our inch of freedom we stand on the edge of oblivion The opiate of the masses are the red and blue pills that they feed you in the institution hope is a necessary utopia so were waiting round for revolution Hack politicians wasting time on dogma propaganda from a decadent past wars about profits and rhythm of production its chaos and it cannot last Liberty is banished free speech is suppressed equalitys been thrown in the ditch by the hands of those who fear progress the poor stay poor and the rich stay rich Disdaining fortune with brandished steel smoked with bloody execution machine minds and hearts told what to think and how to feel so youre waiting round for revolution They dazzle your eyes with lies that clothe their naked villainy and with sensors and surveillance coerce your blind conformity Theyll promise you order, theyll promise you peace then use you as cannon fodder lest you be like unto them they sit back and critique your world from the inside of a bottle Integrity sells for so little so heres an Anonymous contribution no demagogues gonna solicit my submission I think Im gonna go and start that revolution 8 The truncheon may be used in lieu of conversation the pigs only free themselves villains reign themselves to indignation and sugar over evil itself Every time this worlds changed its been for the worse eye for eye and tooth for tooth truth will conquer the universe for ideas are bulletproof Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and oppression, and ruthless persecution theyre so used to bad times theyre unhappy without them so were rallying for revolution Dont play with dice or coincidence lest you be wise in your own conceit the only verdict is vengeance, the band plays on the past is bound to repeat The soul of humanitys been given wings and at last is beginning to fly flying into the future, the light of hope into the glorious rainbow sky Whats taken from the people will return to the people to form a more perfect union there will always be those who dont want us to speak out on the road to revolution To remain great takes sacrifice so the last fight let us face let us fight to free the world and unite the human race Do away with national barriers that barricade the world with hate the divine kingdom is placed within us all and were standing at the gate Words will always retain their power this worlds just a ball of confusion with odd ends stolen forth from holy writ were marching ahead in the revolution 9 LL LINE LINE THE FALL LINE LINE THE FA LL LINE THE FALL NE THE FALL LINE THE FALL LINE THE FALL THE FALL LINE THE FALL LINE THE FALL FA LL LI E FA E H E T N TH LIN E LI E N THE FALL LINE THE FALL LINE THE FALL LINE THE FALL LINE THE FALL E E FALL LI NE THE 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pla A Villanelle to Dad by Natasha L. Maready I wish somehow you were here again If only you didnt have to leave We would bump along on a Saturday You would wake me after the sun Asking if I wanted to go yard sale-ing How I wish somehow you were here again We would lunch at a park On what we picked up at a random stop When we would bump along the road on a Saturday. The radio was ruined by your happy skating I wonder how your rendition of todays Music would sound. Im sure its because I wish somehow you were Here again. Your absent-minded driving, driving me crazy And my absent-minded assumption that you Would always be here To bump along the road On a Saturday. I wish somehow you were here again We would bump along the road on a Saturday. 11 Bittersweet by Jude Bolick The funeral went relatively well. The service was appropriate, although a bit sappy for his taste. Everyone was very gracious about the fact that there was a baby screaming through most of it as well, though that was probably because she was the daughter of the deceased and thus had the right to throw as big of a tantrum as she wanted. Her tuft of brown hair was stuck to the side of her pudgy cheek, her face sticky from the tears and snot running down her face, despite Wadsworths best efforts to keep her presentable. She would let out a howl every thirty seconds or so, her wide eyes closing as if the act gave her voice more strength. The tall ceiling of the church helped echo her tortured voice around, making sure everyone in the seemingly endless rows of pews could hear how upset she was. The stained glass windows lining the two walls on either side of them shook with each sob, the people represented in the artwork appearing to cry alongside her. Wadsworth held her tightly, keeping his own crying silent as he tried to mute her voice by pressing her into his chest lightly and wrapping the blanket tightly around her squirming figure, whispering to her to try and calm her down. Shush, Tilly, its okay But it wasnt okay, even Tilly knew that much. The pastor had to pause the ceremony twice throughout its duration to wait for a break in the babys screams. He didnt say anything, he just stared sadly down at the two while Wadsworth apologized to him silently with his dark green eyes. When Tilly paused her tantrum to catch her breath, the pastor would start his speech back up as if he had never stopped. At a time like this, Wadsworth would usually pass the furious child to his wife, then stare at her with mock irritation when the baby ceased her crying almost instantly. But unfortunately, for both the baby and her father, that was no longer an option. He couldnt be angry at her for acting the way she was. He wanted to react the same way, so instead he just let her vent for the both of them. 12 The only complaint he had with the funeral service was with how many people came up to him afterward and offered him their sympathy. They came single-file down the long red carpet separating the pews like a crimson river, letting the current take them to where he sat on the far right side of the front row. They would say something generic, like Im so sorry for your loss or She would have loved this ceremony before turning away and heading up the low steps to the altar where they shook hands with the pastor and offered the woman in the coffin one last goodbye. They would then make their way against the current to the double doors in the back of the church and exit silently, saving their post-funeral gossiping for outside. The deceaseds mother was the only exception to this rule, as she stayed and chatted with the pastor for an extended time, complimenting him on doing such a wonderful job. It made sense; she was the one who had organized the funeral, paid for the service, and chosen the violets that were surrounding the corpse. During this phase of the funeral, Wadsworth just sat in the front row the entire time, nodding and keeping a tight smile as he bounced Tilly in his lap, keeping his eyes away from the coffin. He tried his best to pay attention to the people coming to see him, his mind both attentive and wandering due to the conflicting emotions fighting inside of him, but he often found himself falling back into memories, unable to stay in the present indefinitely. After a while, the crowd died down, leaving him alone in the church. Even the pastor had left, and the body was taken away soon after. It was just him and his daughter left. The large church hadnt seem so vast and ominous with all the people crowded inside its four walls, but now that the massive building was only holding two people, its size loomed in an almost threatening way. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, gaze slowly moving up to the domed ceiling. His eyes were still puffy from the tears hed been crying, though he wasnt even sure why he was, or what exactly he was upset about. Last week, he had found evidence that his wife, his high school sweetheart, had been cheating on him since college, and that the little girl in his lap may not even be related to him. He had gone into his wifes room one night to clean it as a surprise for when she got home from her long day at work when he found the proof: a stash of mens boxers hidden under a pile of t-shirts, several sizes too big for him. Then, two empty bottles of cheap brandy tossed under the bed, hidden until she got the chance to throw them away discreetly. 13 In her college days, whenever she and her college buddy would hang out together, theyd drink exactly two and a half bottles of brandy between them, and he would take the rest home with him to prevent her from finishing it. Wadsworth was never that good at taking drinks, but then again, the college friend was a much bigger man than he was, his clothes several sizes bigger than his own were. When Wadsworth knelt down to retrieve the bottles with shaking hands that fateful night, setting the baby in his arms down gently on the mattress so as not to crush or disturb her, he noticed a crumpled piece of paper shoved into one of them. He dumped it out and read it several times to make sure he was not mistaken. See you next week~ It took him several minutes before he got back the strength to stand, his knees quaking as he held onto the bed for support. His mouth hung open, his eyes never leaving the note clutched in his trembling hand. Tilly squealed with delight as he scooped her up, racing through the house to the phone, his eyes never leaving the note as he dialed his wifes number. He had intended on asking her about the note, calling her out on it and venting all of the fury that was rapidly building up inside of him, but when hed called her cell phone, a police officer had answered it instead. He had rushed to the hospital, both he and Tilly still in pajamas, just in time to watch his wife flat-line after a car accident had left her nearly severed in half. He stared at her still body, all the fury now mixing with grief, his eyes barely able to register what he was seeing. He was still holding the note in his hand as he slowly approached her hospital bed, taking her cold hand in his shaking one. Tilly was fast asleep in his arms, her eyelids fluttering peacefully as she sucked on her thumb, blissfully ignorant to the fact that her father was now a widower. He had knelt by his wifes hospital bedside once before, with the baby cradled in his arms, but the last time it had been with great joy that hed announced they had a baby girl. This time, he had to be pried away as the doctors came in to remove the body, their baby girl obliviously dreaming as he sobbed in the waiting room. Even at her funeral, he still had the note in his pocket, the weight of it far heavier than the limp child in his arms, who had worn herself out screaming through the entire ceremony. 14 He was left with a baby, barely a year old, to care for on his own and the weight of knowing that hed never know if his wife truly was cheating or not. Did he even have the right to question her now that she was dead? The whole situation left him feeling sick and more alone than hed ever felt, not knowing what to feel, struggling to feel anything at all. In the silence, the questioning voices in his head got louder, his eyes scanning the room briefly to search for a distraction, though he lacked the motivation to simply go home, especially without his wife in the passenger seat next to him, holding his hand as he shifted gears. He wondered if the man he thought she was cheating on him for had shown up to the funeral. He had done his best to scan every face, but he hadnt seen him. Maybe hed slipped under his radar, or had been too nervous to come up and offer Wadsworth his condolences. Great, now his only chance at peace of mind was gone, the church empty, and hed likely never see him again. As he looked around, staring at all the empty pews, he noticed something that silenced all the voices in his head. He wasnt alone after all. Sitting alone, at the back of the church, her eyes cast up to the ceiling, was a strange woman dressed in all black. At least, he thought she was a woman. The smiling mask she wore made it difficult to tell gender or expression. She had bangs that came down to her plastic eyebrows and long black hair, so dark that it put his own shaggy midnight hair to shame, that draped over the back of her bench and almost touched the floor behind her. Her body was proportioned unnaturally, and she sat in a way that would break a persons back, but not hers. She looked comfortable in her painful position. Her hands were crossed in her lap, her odd body embraced in a tight black sweater and what appeared to be yoga pants. 15 Something about her intrigued him, so much that he found himself standing up, wrapping the sleeping baby up in her tiny blanket as he walked toward her, cradling the girl in his arms. The woman didnt move as he approached, but he could tell by the way her head twitched ever so slightly that she knew he was there. He wondered how she knew his wife, and what had brought her to the funeral. He stood beside her for a moment, trying to figure out how to approach the masked woman. Now that he found himself so close to her, he found himself appreciating her height for the first time. She was nearly up to eye level with him seated. However, despite her classic horror movie appearance, he didnt feel afraid of her. Maybe hed simply given up on life, so much that he was willing to make small talk with a murderer. May I sit? he asked gently, keeping his voice low despite knowing there was no one else that could overhear them. Something felt so sacred about the woman, something secretive and almost forbidden. The stranger nodded, patting the seat beside of her twice, inviting him into her hidden world, a secret paradise all her own. He took the seat graciously, bouncing Tilly in his lap as he tried to figure out what she was staring at so intently. It was impossible to tell with the mask obscuring her eyes entirely, little upturned black slits all that were visible to the widower. An array of smells filled his nose as he breathed in deeply, the oddly specific scents provoking a collection of strong emotions. The woman beside of him smelled of roses, but in a different way than one might expect. Not a bunch of fresh roses, bundled together and given as a gift to a lover on their anniversary, no, but a single rose, left out in the rain, the petals melting away in its slow decay, left to die on the hard concrete, as alone as the person who had brought it, and as ignored; rejected. 16 She didnt smell of candles, burning slowly on a bedside table, the small flickering light casting long pulsing shadows across the walls. She smelled of smoldering wax, left over from the candles that had burned all night, casting no shadows as the person who had lit them stayed up, checking the clock beside of them, wondering why their lover hadnt come home, or returned their texts, fearing the worst and wondering what the worst, in their mind, was. There was a deep sadness in the air, and he could feel it emanating from her. It drew him in, his heart filled with a longing to understand her pain. Not to relieve her of it, but to be a part of it, share in her beautiful suffering. He glanced down at the baby in his lap, curious to see her reaction to the stranger in the mask. Tillys bright brown eyes met his, swollen from all of the tears shed shed during the ceremony. She continued to suck on her thumb, ignorant to the strangers existence. When he looked up to see if the stranger had noticed the child, he watched her hastily turn away, as if she had been staring at them and didnt want to be caught. Wadsworth suddenly found himself questioning if the masked woman was just in his head. The two sat in silence for a moment, basking in their sadness, separate but together, before the woman decided to break the silence. A beautiful ceremony, she said wistfully. The small talk seemed so unfitting for her, and he could tell it felt wrong for her to say it. She was simply breaking the silence, wishing for a meaningful conversation, but fearing to scare the widower off. It made him want her even more. Her voice rang out like church bells after a divorce, as hard as a pebble against a darkened window, yet as soft as a whisper in the middle of the night in ones sleep, calling out the name of someone other than the person sleeping next to them. The mask failed to dampen the tone or volume, which drew his eyes over to her face. 17 As he watched her move, he realized that her chest didnt rise or fall with breaths, and her mask had no breathing holes carved into it. Indeed he breathed, awed by the womans air of mystery. He decided to take the risk, asking what was truly on his mind, not dancing around the point. He disliked small talk as much as she seemed to. How did you know my wife? he asked, his fingers twiddling with the blankets hem as he spoke. The stranger stayed silent for a moment, offering him little more than another head twitch, the movement letting him know she was still listening to him, not off in her own world. He was a part of that world now, and he never wanted to leave it. It felt so safe, a place to be himself without shame. I didnt, she said after a moment, startling him. A sick thought passed through his mind and he found himself asking the next question automatically. Were you the one who hit my wife? She shook her head, leaning back as she gazed up at the ceiling. No. Then what brings you here? he pressed, desperate to understand her more. She hesitated, still worried about scaring him off. It suddenly struck him what the confusing emotion was that was in every breath she didnt take, in every unnatural twitch of her body. She was lonely, seeking out a friend as much as he was. Ive been to every funeral, she said after a moment, finally turning her head to face him head on. She had finally let him fully in, taken the dive, laid it all out in hopes he wouldnt reject her. Ill be at yours, too, Wadsworth 18 Wadsworth turned to her, trying to process what shed said, wondering if he had misheard her. As he met her hidden eyes, he could have sworn that he saw her wink, a smile widening on the lips behind the mask. Thousands of questions flooded his mind, struggling to be the center of his attention, begging to be let out and thrown at the stranger in the mask. But only one question came out of his mouth, the most innocent of them all, yet powerful enough to beat the rest of them back: Would you like to go get some lunch? 19 Small Guy by Tara Scott, Digital Art 20 Backstitch by Alysia Townsley you strike me right between the ribs the gunpowder dusts my chest gaping heart wound I am a gunshot in the fabric of this love I am a tear in your shirt that I could not mend every wound is a scar in the making I fell apart for you but in the end I came back for you gunmetal suture holding you together I promised you this 21 A Love Poem by Kari Zacharias No fury like a woman scorned That fury like a summer storm The air is hot, her blood once warm Runs cold without compassion The wound is fresh, no open flesh A broken heart through bright red dress Beats louder now inside her chest With rage, her greater passion A path so clear seems hazy now She thinks of when and where and how Another breath she cant allow His skin turns gray and ashen Relax, my love, this brazen fear So unattractive on you dear Hold still a minute and youll see Never again will you cross me 22 Zelda the Cat by Carra Hammond, Pen and Ink 23 Sick by Gil Somers When was the last time you were truly sick? When blood pooled in your ears, and, wrapped in cotton curtains, you sunk, stoned and solemn, into restless dreams, waking in wet pools of phlegmy sweat, what might be urine, and definitely spit. When you breathed through your mouth for so long you forgot parched wasnt a state of rest, chapped not a state of order. When you lay in bed, eyes closed, tracing the pulse from your toes to neck to forehead, feeling everything and nothing all at once. Hurting. When youd wake up again, remembering you were frightened, that you were close to knowing what it meant, but couldnt accept that some dreams have no meanings When your hands were dry, and your throat was sore, but your nose still found time to run away from you and slobber itself on your favorite shirts. When the last thing and first thing you ate was saltines, and the time before that it was vomit. When your mother walked in and put her gentle palm on your forehead and cooed quietly, in one hand a mug of warm broth, in the other, a mocking bird. And the bright spirited change of television hues flashed blue and white on the gray backdrop of your musty cave; while above you, AquaMan looked out through the misty steam of your ventilator, ever vigilant in his guard. And still you cant breathe, and your mothers soup doesnt help like it used to, and outside the window, stars whirl past in a promenade of twisted dreamscapes and large walls with shallow seats where the heaters turned up too high and you wake, drenched in sweat, again. Your mother isnt there and youre cold, your pillows full of tears and salt and dew and you cant breathe through your nostrils and the blood pools in your ears and throbs behind your neck and somewhere inside you know you almost knew why you were so afraid. But you still cant accept that some dreams have no meanings. 24 Mother by Cheryl Deangelis, Pen and Ink 25 Blur of Colors by MyKaela Morris Stare The world has become a blur of colors Black Gray Purple Pink White Turn away I cant look anymore I dont want to see those colors Blink I try to put the world back in focus It doesnt last for long Look around All I see are more people staring How can they stand to see those colors? Listen How sweet the sound I hate it I want to leave Leave Leave the awful sounds Leave the people staring Leave the blur of colors Wait Down I see the blur of colors going down Black Gray Purple Pink White Gray Purple Pink White Purple Pink White Pink White White 26 Stop Where are the colors Why are they gone I want them back Geisha IV by Nathalie Ando, Graphite 27 Comparison by Rainah Gregory I heard someone recite a phrase today That comparison is the thief of joy. I sit and reconsider all my ways And ponder the frank meaning of this ploy. Do I forget myself when watching those Around me, as the world rolls from my sight? Ignoring open doors for those stood closed? Allowing happiness to walk right by? Do I consume my thoughts in little things That never mattered to my brain before? Do I escape the essence that life brings, Greeting negative thoughts into my core? Alas, I find that this is not my goal. Instead I long to love and trust my soul. 28 Haiku by Dara Kupke, Pen and Ink 29 The Freedom Rails by Alex Terpilowski I mean, its so fucking obvious if people would just take the time to think about it. The words slice through my meandering thoughts as assuredly as the crisp hiss that follows the crack of the days first Schlitz. The cherry of his Wildhorse Menthol bellows a plume of smoke that briefly masks and distorts his sharp featured face as he drags and adopts an expectant look. In the brief respite of his ranting, I suppose Im to say somethinganything, reallyto let him know I agree, or at the very least am following along with the conversation. But I suppose I also must take care to inflect a tone of mild epiphany, as if whatever droll nonsense he was working himself up about had never before been thought by anyone anywhere at any time. See but thats the thing, I hear myself saying. People dont wanna think about it. Is that enough? I take a purposefully long swig of malt liquor, hoping to give him time to get going again. Yeah, no, you got that right. People are content just pushing a shopping cart through life. Buying, buying, buying, but never having. They shop the aisles of life and never leave the store. Never go home, wherever or whatever the fuck that may be. Everyone wants It works. He was looking at his feet, and at the tree that represented the far corner of our staked claim of the American Dreama small clearing in the forested vee where two tracks of train converge within earshot of the station and the rowdy sport-and-wing joint and the hospitaland at his empty chair, and at every which where but me, which was fine. Piercing was a term usually reserved for the iciest blue of eyes, yet when those darting brown orbs finally ceased their endless wandering to home in on their next victim, they could cower ones soul to the deepest recesses of cognition. ...at home watching their precious Steve Harvey propagate the systems subliminal grated intellectual purging of the public, oblivious to how totally fucked everything really is. That aint freedom, man. He puffs and spreads his arms wide: This is freedom. Then he resumes his compulsive pacing. I mean, shit, man. People like us? Were the last true vestige of anything unique and original in this godforsaken 30 Distractedly, he uses his cigarette hand to brush his uncombed and oily chestnut hair from his eyes, singeing his bangs and either not caring or not noticing. He props a soiled bootnot the one ducktaped on the leftupon the stump we sometimes use as a stool and leans forward, elbows at the knee, and continues on and on and on. His green-on-orange flannel, rolled to the requisite three-quarters sleeve, hangs loosely over a white v-neck, both splattered with dirt and beer and snot and god knows what else. A torn and frayed brown belt separates the top and bottom grime, the latter clinging to an ageless pair of faded Levis. The sun is getting higher. Mid-day is closing in, and I am still no further in my quest to drown away the world beyond our clearings border. The Tuesday morning had started off routine enough: wake up; nurse the hangover of last nights triumphs with the swill of its whisky handle and tap-water instant black coffee; force through a cold shower (heat and electric had long ago abandoned that cursed place); a quick mental preparation and out the door to work. Only there was no work in which to go. The sign on the covered door had left no room for error: Too many new restaurants, not enough profit. I returned home twenty minutes later and found that a similar note had attached itself to my own door, the only difference being the mocking red of the paper. Five days till doomsday. At that I did what any sensible, red-blooded American would have done: I turned right around and walked straight to the nearest alcohol emporium. With the golden nectar in hand, I withdrew behind the barricades of the clearing, where I discovered my present company well into their third forty-ounce indulgence. I suppose you might say we were friends, if being friends meant that we sometimes got drunk in the same vicinity as each other. Sure, we have the inevitable real talks that come after a long night of self-medication, when the darkness retreats and dawn threatens to carry hope across the horizon. I know vaguely of his upbringings in a well-to-do county household, and of his parents perfectly wholesome marriage, and of the modest trust-fund he tries to forget. And I suppose over the years he might have picked up on some intimacies of mine on the rare occasions in which he cared to direct his attention farther than arms length. But was this tantamount to friendship? A cohabitation of misery seemed to be a more apt designation. I begin to hear the low rumblings of a train galloping along the rails, and for the first time today a pitiful smile betrays my lips. If nothing else, a train always managed to capture my attention, and I could surely use the reprieve. Would it be passenger or freight? Passenger cars brought the exhilaration of their speed, which could certainly help ones frame of mind. In broad daylight, however, with the nakedness of the trees courtesy of a weathered and fading Autumn, any aforementioned pleasure would surely be overruled by the judging eyes of the parasites within. No, better to hope for one of the 31 freights. They may be slower, but their infinite sprawl was a commanding presence nonetheless. And anyways, there was something meditative about the way they bumbled and creaked along, resigned to the fate of the rail. Never deviant. Sometimes griping, perhaps, but always faithful. Oh man, I hear him start. Listen to that! Werent we just talking about freedom? Sounds like a Chessie, dont it? When youve been around them as long as I have, you pick up an ear for them. The words feel muted as if from a dream, for the train has already taken hold of me and I am dimly aware that I have risen to my feet and moved closer to the tracks. Ah, its going west, though, he continues with a click of his teeth. Man, aint that a damn shame. I need to be getting south before it gets too cold and there aint a junction till up around Charleston. East, I just gotta ride to Richmond, then hop off and wait for another if it turns wrong. And then the CSX is upon us, barreling down the line perhaps a bit faster than they usually go. The noise and vibration consume me. My peripherals fade to nothingness as I stand mesmerized by the sheer magnitude of the thing. For a moment I forget the events of the day, and my everything dissolves, and there is nothing but me and this big lumbering beast, pushing on and on and on into eternity. I am free. Like the freight I am a vision in the wind, roaming the untamed wilderness. I can be anything, for I am nothing. I can go anywhere, for I am rooted nowhere. But then the moment is over, and Im left to watch the immortal freight as I begin to ponder the morose irony of its existence. What perverse depravity, the bittersweet illusion its afforded. To be given such an extensive leash so as to reach any height or distance, so long as the paths set forth by unknown entities are adhered to. Yet is a prison bereft of bars not still a prison? The chains may be long, and loose enough to mitigate discomfort, yet see how they constrict and grow taut at the slightest deviation in course. Indeed, here before me in the visage of metal and diesel and cargo lay the tragedy of our God-given truths and the sham of our self-deluded freedom. In my peripheral, I notice an odd expression form on my compatriot face. The kind where one presses their front teeth against the corner of their bottom lip, and stretches the other side clear up and away towards the ear, forcing an eye into a sort of squint. In a steady motion he brings his mouth front and center, all the while pressing against the bottom lip, the result somewhere between a smile and a grimace. Fuck it, he decides with a slight one-two shake of the head. Then he elevates his voice slightly so as to be heard over the residual clacking of the cars against the rails. I aint been West in a bit, might be something out there worth a damn. Next thing I know, his Schlitz is stretching its 32 bottom skyward, and the last quarter of liquid disappears in seconds. With a Wildhorse sagging between his lips he picks his olive-drab pack off the dry dirt, slides his arms in, and secures the clasps across his waist and chest. He pauses and looks my way. Why dont you come with? No, hold on man, hear me out. You aint done nothin but complain about your job for a while now. You obviously hate it, so whats the point? Look, whats the point of working somewhere you hate, giving the best years of your life away to some suit who doesnt give a shit about you so long as the bottom line stays where its supposed to beor better yet, it raises a bit and you get a jolly good, old sport, a gold star, and a new standard to maintain? What kind of life is that? You work your ass off for piss wage and the hope that one day things will magically come together. Well guess what, man? They dont. And there aint shit you can do about it by playing their game. So,He does the closest thing one can do to a shrug with a fifty-plus pound pack strapped to themdont. Cant get fired if you dont to work, right? You dont have to pay if you get food from a dumpster, yeah? And you dont need to make rent if you set your bed against the stars. Im telling you, man. This is freedom. It aint glamorous and it sure as shit aint pretty, but you get to live life on your own terms. Hell, I dont know about you, but thats good enough for me. All the while the rhythmic clack-clack of the train cars seem to accentuate every point. It made sense. Somehow in the midst of all his ranting and raving, he had touched upon the heart of the issuenot that I had bothered to disclose any of the events of the day to him. Broken clocks, right? All that was needed was a yes, and my shackles would be undone. Then Id deliver unto my Schlitz the same fate as his, and wed be off. With a running start Id grab hold of the train car and hoist myself up and into an empty gondola, where Id promptly crack another forty. I would roam the wild, taking from each city whatever I desired because I was free to do so. Id sleep under the stars, find food in the decadent wastefulness of society, and call no man boss. I would find clearings like the one between these two train bridges in every town. All across America I would make my claim against the world: I was here, and I wouldnt be subject to their presumptions of what my life should be. I allow the fantasy to endure for as long as I am able. I try to force out the other thoughts wiggling their way into my consciousness but in the end, they prevail. I see myself sleeping in the heat and wind and rain and snow. I see myself digging through trash for food and stealing when the hunger became too pronounced. No, I admit. I needed a running tap, and clean socks and underwear, and the knowledge of a bed and roof. My life may not afford me many creature comforts, but I wasnt ready to forsake what little I did have, even if it was dwindling to damn near nothing. I let out a deep sigh and a pathetic little chuckle as I tell myself this isnt cowardice. 33 Nah, man. I cant. Suit yourself, he says with another almost-shrug. See ya around, man. Then, with a flick of his Wildhorse and a running start he grabs hold of the train car and hoists himself up and into an empty gondola, and hes gone. After a few more clack-clacks, so is the train. I watch the caboose till it goes around the bend and fades away, and then back away from the tracks towards my chair. A third waiting forty is standing sentinel by the legs, iridescent in the late morning sun from the delectable bits of perspiration glacially descending its body. I sit and retrieve it and rest it on my knee. As my other hand grabs hold of the cap to twist, however, I hesitate. The initial devastation of the day is fading, and with the pacification reality is starting to set. I need work; All the rest would fall into place after. I feel the alcohol coursing through my veins, diluting and deregulating my being. Soon the medication will turn a hindrance, but there was time in the day yet, still. I wanted to stop at some kitchens to put out some feelers. Hell, with a little luck I could be starting somewhere later this week. I catch myself making a face not unlike the one I saw made a little while ago and I let out a single, snorted chuckle. With a Fuck it the Schlitz is cracked and I hear that soothing, familiar hiss. 34 Winter by Taylor Abajian, Photography 35 To Think of Time by Isaac Rowlingson Vague as the night and form in scarlet folds under the paling stars under your boot soles far beyond the difference between whats ahead and behind where there is no distance oh, to think of time I rode the limitless and lonesome prairie and whirled in the hot air of noon I crossed the ceaseless ferry under the full moon tinged with blue To think of time In the twilight of gleams and glimpses To think of time Decked with the robes of princes To think of time Thou hast made me endless To think of time The farthest course comes nearest towards this worlds great festival so I strum the chords that please the lord with whom I loaf and lull and ply my minstrelsy within this court of thine where Ill always have a corner seat oh, to think of time Rapid the trot to the cemetery the earth is quickly shoveled in What was expected of Heaven, or feared of Hell? What becomes of now and then? To think of time Well never lie by again To think of time We gather pebbles and scatter them 36 To think of time Passed on the preludes within To think of time People come with their codes and laws in hopes to bind me fast but ever I evade them all with the shadows that I cast the casket is latched, the gate is passed and another eye turns blind Id give myself up to love at last oh, to think of time If youve come looking for answers for the questions that youve dreamed I am no necromancer and I have no exquisite scheme To think of time You and your soul enclose all things To think of time All truths wait in all things To think of time Stars stay aside in their own rings To think of time SOURCE MATERIAL This poem is a collage which consists of many lines. Some of these lines originated in my head while others have been borrowed from various sources which I have listed below. Literature: Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore and Leaves of Grass (1855 edition) by Walt Whitman. 37 Madam Butterfly by Melissa Reid, Oil Paint 38 Lines by Scott Williamson Twenty million people live in this city. And the other day, I think I saw you. Bathed in darkness. Lying on the couch. Smoke escapes my lips, dancing amidst the lights from the towers shining through the window. You wouldnt approve. Luis and I always had to smoke our cigarettes when you werent there. We both wanted you. But he just wanted to fuck you. I respected you. You were smarter than the both of us. You could be a real self-righteous bitch about it. Tobacco was too far but weed was fine, huh? What about when Luis laced his with cocaine? You could see he was killing himself. Shit, you didnt even go to his funeral. Smoke pounds my lungs. This is different. Im not an addict like Luis was. My cravings dont control me. I will choose my death, and the smoke that I exhale adds exclamation. Was that really you I saw late last Thursday? Did you flee when you saw me looking up at the suicide clinic? I wasnt planning to go in. It was just morbid curiosity. You can see them through the windows, people like you and me sitting, waiting patiently to die. A nurse comes out and takes them away past a dividing white line. I never saw your face. It was that perfume you always used to wear and that gait you always used to affect. I could sense that it was you. Im like an animal. I always wanted to touch you, and you never let me. Maybe thats what drove me to you and your scent. I was slowed by the press of people but I chased you up the stairwell to the empty maglev chamber. You crossed the yawning threshold in the middle of the room, a second before me, and you were about to turn... The maglev came, silent, and opened on the other side. When it left, you were gone. 39 I watched it go, mind numb. A strip of neon cut through the world as it left me. The light shined on the side of that maglev so that it could be easily seen in the dark. A line to follow across the city, above the gutters and through the past, decaying with ivy but scented like you. Was that even you I saw? Im going to end up like Luis soon. I want to see you one last time. Please. I heard a street preacher once say were all connected. Twenty million people live in this city, all following their own paths, but expanding from one source, growing like a tree, like the Web, like fiber-optics and ivy. Branches traced in neon and seething with old hurt. Maybe you can see those lights outside too. And maybe, somewhere deep inside you, you can hear the past calling in a broken voice. Can you hear me? 40 I-Love-Yous by Gil Somers I wrote today, on the backs of rocks, and hid them in your garden So as youre sun-kissed, planting forget-me-nots, you might find I-love-yous among them Geisha V by Nathalie Ando, Graphite 41  ...

... The Fall Line Spring 2018 Piedmont Virginia Community College THE FALL LINE EDITORS Wyatt Ernst Marissa Hall Ella Chin Nathan Moore ART DIRECTOR Aaron Miller COVER DESIGN Nathalie Ando MAGAZINE LAYOUT Wyatt Ernst CLUB ADVISOR Jenny Koster ABOUT The Fall Line, Spring 2018, is the 10th volume, selected, edited and produced by Writers Unite, the PVCC Creative Writing Club CONTENTS Without the Sky By Ella Chin ---------------------------------------------- 1 Stars Dont Know When Theyre Crossed By Wyatt Ernst ------------------------------------------- 2 Gypsy By Isaac Rowlingson -------------------------------------- 4 Unscathed By Gil Somers--------------------------------------------- 6 Silent Screams By Marissa Hall ------------------------------------------ 8 A Novel Idea By: Nathan Morris---------------------------------------10 I am By Teshima Anderson ------------------------------------16 Reason to Change By Kevin Potts -------------------------------------------18 Homeless Def ined By Arnita Richardson ----------------------------------- 20 Crumble By Tobin Moore ----------------------------------------- 22 My Window By Emma Keppel-----------------------------------------24 Silence By Aspen Eichelburger ---------------------------------- 26 Well Wishes By Johnette Horace-------------------------------------- 28 The Journey By Sofie Couch ------------------------------------------ 30 necromancy By Alysia Townsley ------------------------------------- 32 Tangled By Gilbert Somers --------------------------------------- 34  P O LY P E T | D I G I TA L | C AT H E R I N E A N D E R S O N WITHOUT THE SKY By Ella Chin perhaps, had i been there, i couldve freed the bird trapped in the window or warned her before she got stuck. i know that the very place they loved is too toxic to return to, that trees burn red with isotopes, that the very words i bleed are appeals to the world to remember heroes we owe far too much to to forget. but i wasnt there, so now she waits, caught between broken panes of glass that let her see the sun but never fly to it, and im here writing about what couldve been and shouldnt be, about babies with eggshell bones held to cancer-stained hearts and voices that werent heard until after they were gone and her eyes brim with the tears that fill her childs lungs and freeze him in the room without the sky, where playgrounds are wards, green foam walls floating between electric lullabies and the hourly cries of the vacuum in his throat. they can never sleep without shadowplays on their eyelids, but they cant sleep with them, either, and as i write this, ~1~ STARS DONT KNOW WHEN THEYRE CROSSED B y Wya t t E r n s t Two hopes lie juxtaposed A mothers last stand A motherlands only Hero Their fight for lifes opposed She is despised He is hunted Savior in kindness Luck of failure Luck in defeat Coming for Crisis Friend and foe alike, Hunts only end one way Left behind in choice Trapped in people-shape chains Locked out by isolation Left without a voice No one to hear No one to speak The final march rings Too young to realize Too jaded to care Fear is all it brings A leader never known A vanguard who refuses One side must burn Cant betray her hope Cant betray his promise One side must turn Have they strayed too far? Have they left me behind? Maybe they walk away Ill find a way alone Ill find her on my own Maybe they decide to stay I must prevail Fate cant make me fail ~2~ Two lives are crossed One must learn hate One must learn love For once, reach for the dove For once, make someone late Many lives are lost One finally chooses Life is its own reward Life is its own promise One finally fuses Mothers hope affirmed Voices heard forever To those whove learned Kindness never fresher Love was the only choice Piece to reign a thousand years Just listen to their voices (An etcher loses wares So someone can remember) ~3~ GYPSY By Isaac Rowlingson Her emerald eyes and raven hair her pendulum clock hypnotic stare her cheap disguise the breathless air I breathe her feathered gown and wooden broom a one track town in the afternoon I was hanging around how could you assume I didnt see? Your caravan has roamed far and wide and behind puppet strings you hide the cards you play youve got the world in the palm of your hand but youre on the tip of my tongue dont you understand? I wont let you fall Gypsy Your beauty, yes, fills the room as we lay in the golden tomb the long forgotten maze And the smoke it fills the air as I look up and stare into your haze Im coming through Gypsy And in the saloon I get a faded feeling her tears slip slowly through the crooked ceiling as I dry my eyes as my skin is peeling it all comes back the same the fog is lifted from her unveiled face her mind has shifted right out of place and in my heart remains the empty space of a memory Her crystal necklace and silhouette on the long night that I cant forget her dancing flame and cowboy hat her ruby ring hung down by the stars of the darkest night the rising tide shining so bright the diamond sands we kept in sight for the time Here she sits waiting for the day to begin as I sit dreaming about the rain again as her gin floods my head Oh, but you and I are like day and night Im weary eyed and I must say goodnight Im falling fast Gypsy And I travelled to the moon just to find you if Ive spoken too soon may I remind you of whats behind Every time you look into the mirror and it looks back at you and says, I know how you feel, Gypsy The hollow birds they begin to shout as the rain pours down without a shadow of doubt its dark in here would you let me out of the cave? The rusted pipes they begin to break the endless curtain it begins to drape over a cold cut coffin and heavens gate this cant be everyday ~4~  S T R A N G E B E D F E L LOW | R A E A L B E RT S Unscathed B y G i l S o m e rs IT WASNT LIKE I heard it would be. There was no flash, no bright lights, no memories of my mother stirring hot lentil soup while my brother and I knelt around the woodstove racing matchboxes to the smell of ash and smoke and dust and the tinny sound of Bob Dylan on our fathers guitar. It was silent. And slow. Like what I always imagined being lost in space would feel like: unending and relentless, just me watching the world go by. It was early March and I had set out to drive cross country, solo. I acquired a forest green 1994 Jeep Grand Cherokee for five-hundred dollars, threw what little possessions I had into the trunk, and drove westward. Aside from a flat tire two hours later and a blizzard near Laramie, Wyoming some days later, the trip was pretty uneventful and I was pretty lucky, considering I didnt necessarily know what I was doing. Looking back, of course, no one gets into a beat-up farm Jeep with less than four-hundred dollars to their name planning to drive across the country in the middle of March when most places north of the Mason-Dixon line are still experiencing winter unless they absolutely believe that they know what theyre doing. Or theyre an idiot. Or both. I was alive. I threw open the heavy door to the frigid air outside and unfurled myself onto the snow, relishing its cool embrace on my red and flushed face. The air reeked of engine oil and transmission fluid, of cold nights and snot. My body was still Jello from the adrenaline, and when I stood up I fell again to my knees and then to my palms. I wasnt sure if anything hurt, but I still saw stars on the horizon. I heard her, my Jeep, rumbling softly, like some celestial beast half-hidden in snow, waiting to rise. Are you OK? Uhm, yes. I replied. Yeah.. You sure? I started laughing! Yes! Yes! Im ALIVE!. I was exuberant! Ecstatic! Elated! Invigorated! Maybe a touch delirious, but I was alive! Im fine, Im fine! I called back, my teeth bright in manic smile. I whooped and hollered, howled and cheered! I danced into my lovely, life-saving, forest green Jeep, put her in four-wheel drive, and drove off into the setting sun, westward, in search of more incidents to barely survive! I felt the earth let go of my tires, windows cleared of hot and humid breath and fog. I felt my foot on the brake pedal (when did it get there?), and I felt the cold foam steering wheel in my grip, nails digging into my palms. One, then two, then three and four thick flakes of snow clumped heavily on my windshield. Wipers lurched and arced, beginning their unperturbed sweep of the stragglers in their path. Breath, hot and humid, fogged my windows, and the headlights ahead shone through like dull stars. I hadnt even begun to spin. Outside my windows, evergreens stood like ever-watching sentinels in their ice-bound world, like two walls with which to collide. Behind me my tire tracks crisscrossed and laced together, in and then out, dancing in the snow on the road like planetary trajectories moving through time. ~6~  S E L F I E | D I G I TA L | PA R K E R M C C R A RY SILENT SCREAMS By Marissa Hall Standing in the middle of the room, Feeling the walls close in on me The pain in my chest gets tighter and tighter Needing to speak, yet I cannot form words. My mind buzzes, yet a simple help Cannot escape my chapped lips. I flick the rubber band around my wrist To try and bring me back to reality. Throat tightens, constricts the flow of air Unable to breath, I am drowning My lungs are a coal fire. My limbs, anvils with balloons attached to them. Weightless, yet paralyzing with each movement. My mind buzzes with the day-to-day tasks I must do Depression lures me to sleep, skip class, and eat to find comfort. Anxiety screams, Do it all and then some. Both make me feel like a failure ~8~ Unable to say no to people For the fear of disappointment outweighs the need for sleep. Plus, I learned the hard way that it is better to be busy Then to be alone with nothing but time and them Instinctively I scratch my arm, trying to ease the internal war Trying to find some way to ease this burden To try is never good enough though, At least to them I am not Eyelids feel weighed down, just wanting to sleep this pain away Craving the glass bottle to touch my lips, filling me with liquid bliss A friend looks over and asks if I am okay As a single tear forms in my eye, maintaining a steady voice I say, Yeah, Im fine. Just tired. ~9~ A Novel Idea By: Nathan Mor ris UNDERWHELMING and a demand for books to sell were what pushed Hartley Salk to create a fictitious version of the serial murders happening around him. Characters were given different names, the town was rebranded, and fodder was thrown in for characters who were people he had never met: that is all he did to change his story from what was happening around him. CREATIVE IDEAS Hartley Salk was an acclaimed author, once, but time had worn on him, his body, and his proficiency. After a whopping twenty books all came out critically successful, he was due for another, but another wasnt on his mind. There wasnt even an idea. His creativity was gone; his last few books had teetered on the edge of mediocre, but thankfully enough the critics had been euphoric about his original masterpieces and managed to overlook tired tropes and plot points running rampant through his newer work. What he needed was something new, something other than science fiction stories and grim romance novels, and he decided to plagiarise life for that. A murder mystery was nothing like what he had written before. Blood on his pages, screams echoing between the spine of the book . . . it was exactly what he needed to make his work flare again, and he got the idea after the first grisly murder took place in the quiet town he was retreating in. Somewhere inside he knew it was wrong while he read over the news report glowing off of his laptop screen. It was afternoon, the day after another murder just down the road, with this one being a Samantha Wilcox. None of the victims had any relation that Hartley could figure out, which made the mystery in his novel all the more compelling, and this death would especially be so as Samantha was found stuffed into her homes water heater. He added his own part with his characters jaw being snapped open and both hands being shoved down into her neck, sinister enough for shock value. Other deaths, which he chuckled to think he had made up since other murder reports werent as revealing (it had been a slip up that the water heater detail was ~ 10 ~ released), included a hundred pencils being stabbed through the arms and legs of the victim, the final one piercing his eyes, nose, ears, and mouth, as well as a woman who had all of the circulation in her body cut off by tightly bound rubber bands at every joint, and an older woman who was found strung against the ceiling with her back sliced open and a rabid dog left in the room. Hartley couldnt attribute all of the death details to himself; in fact, most of them had come from his writing apprentice, Daisy Ruiz, who had surprisingly been on board with the idea of writing about the death around them. In her mind, they were fictionalizing what was happening around them, they were making it less grotesque in a way and possibly making it seem like a story with an end, that the killer would be unmasked and put in jail. She had joined him shortly after he moved to town, which happened to be perfect timing for him since the murders started a few weeks after that, and she had sought him out to ask in person if he could teach her how to be a better writer. Hartley couldnt refuse; he loved attention and fans. After he finished reading about the murder and picturing how he would write it, Hartley glanced in the dirty mirror across the room and studied his dark, morbid features. For several days he hadnt slept in order to stay on top of things; it seemed like he was on a writing streak he didnt want to lose. He next looked at the clock and saw it was 3:50. Daisy was just getting out of high school and would be coming soon to talk about writing. At first he wasnt sure about her pitching in to the story, as she had initially proposed herself as someone who was horrid at coming up with original ideas, something she wanted help with. Hartley couldnt tell her he himself was out of creative ideas, but the way she came up with deaths impressed him. The one thing that worried him about what he was doing was the idea that when he moved back to the big city and released the novel, people from the town and those who kept up with the story would recognize similarities and he would be criticized for that. It was surely a risk, but his story bore enough of its own signature, and instinctively he would write his own ending as thus far it seemed as though the cops werent on any good trails to find the killer. Hartley wasnt worried about coming up with something original or entertaining enough for the ending, though. He had Daisy to help him. When the young girl came bounding through the door, having a key of her own to get into the house since sometimes he wouldnt be there when she got there and he trusted her to not mess anything up until he got back, he expected to have to explain the news to her; however, Daisy seemed fully aware of it already. Did you hear about it!? she exclaimed with that natural delight she had when opportunities for story inspiration came to her. Hartley was still getting use to her thick accent, and even though he didnt full well understand what she had said, he just laid back and let her continue. Found in a water heater? Thats crazy! I mean, its all so awful, we had a moment of silence of school. Id seen her a few times at the Food Lion I work at, so it was kinda weird to hear that she had died...I honestly hope that killer is caught soon, or at least quits town. Also, sorry Im late, I was talking to Darren for a bit before leaving. Yeah, he agreed, going back to his page. Darren was Daisys best friend. She had talked about him several times and several times had arrived late because she had been talking to him. Hey, come here, read this, Daisy. Tell me what you think, I didnt wanna go any further because I wanted to have the cops reaction to the way she dies. You worked without me!? she mockingly cried, bouncing to his side to read over his shoulder. Her eyes plastered the screen with her vision while she speed read. All the while, Hartley couldnt decipher what was behind her serious face plate until she said her opinion out loud. I think it could be better. She spoke bluntly but smiled apologetically to make up for it. I actually came up with something too! Whats that? Hartley asked anxiously, finding it a trend that her ideas were usually always better than his. So, I like where you were heading, disfigurement is always a shock factor when it comes to serial murders. But look at the things the killer has done so far, that level of of gore isnt something he or she would do themselves. Ripping the jaw open and slamming her hands inside is too sadistic for them I think. But what if, okay, what had happened was that before being shoved into the water heater, like, she couldnt fit, so he broke all her bones and when he figured that she still couldnt fit, he forcibly tore out her femurs and pushed her legs up behind her head? Huh? Huh? Gore with a purpose! This is why youre my apprentice, Hartley chuckled, moving in to rewrite the scene, although just as he was about to, Daisys fingers flexed out across the keyboard. May I? she asked politely, looking as though she would die if she didnt get to. When Hartley nodded, she squeaked with joy and took his seat as he jumped out of it, then he watched as Daisy arched her body and destroyed the keyboard with her typing speed. It was something Hartley was jealous of, since he himself took time to write, and while she was fast, she was also good. Her writing style and level of detail was similar to his, which he assumed was because he mentored her. Dont go too far, last time you did that it was good stuff but if you write too much of this then it might be your story instead of mine, Hartley remarked, moving off to make himself some more coffee. Im just writing this scene, dont worry, Mr. Salk, she replied casually, the clicking of the keys rebounding off every millisecond. I feel like the story is almost done anyways, weve had good build up, I feel like if we drag it on too long it might get boring, and Im starting to run out of ideas for deaths. You might be right, and if I release it around the same time the murders end, people might see similarities easier. And at the same time, knowing the killer or how it ends might influence your ending and make it similar, making it even more similar! ~ 11 ~  S PAC E E X H E AV Y | D I G I TA L A N D C O L L AG E | C AT H E R I N E A N D E R S O N I guess we should end it soon, Hartley nodded to the air. How many pages we have? 213. least get to the end of her set up. So he leaned back in the seat, stretching out with a groan, and set his fingers to work crafting what would lead into the end of the story. * * * Long enough for a thriller. Include ending length though, Daisy started. At least 20 to 30 pages if well written and suspenseful enough. And are we having falling resolution or is it a shock ending? The story seems to rely on shock in the way weve constructed it, so itd make sense to have a shock ending instead of giving resolution. Are we killing off the main character? Which character are we going to have be the killer? The second main character, I feel like that fits since the other character has been kinda sidelined the whole time and I feel like that might make it less satisfying. Youre right, Hartley agreed. The two of them bickered away for the rest of the afternoon until Daisy trotted off back to her house, zooming away down the street on her bike. Hartley watched her go, and wondered about going further in the story while she was gone. He had already done so before, and it was his book anyway. In any case, the book had reached its finale, and if the finale wasnt his own idea, then why put his name as the author? Hartley sat down at his desk and brought the document back up, seeing that Daisy had left notes on it for her thoughts on how to reach the scene of the climax which evidently would take place at the main characters house. The set up was put in broad strokes, the sidelined character killed off essentially by being fodder, something Hartley agreed with and Daisy had given him a beautifully crafted death that she had went and typed herself. Found in the woods, legs broken, and the neck snapped back with a thick log rammed down his throat and into his chest. Hartley guessed she was leaving the ending to him, a note at the bottom was typed: Heres to an ending I know Ill be happy with! Thanks for all youve taught me, make this story your best! Best wishes, Daisy :). It was four in the morning when his computer gave him the news notification. Another victim found, Hartley was quick to open and look at it. Another one so soon, it chilled him, and at the same time he wondered what the circumstances were and if he had missed an opportunity. Daisy probably wouldnt mind too terribly if it turned out to be something great and he used it instead of her idea. This thought crossed his mind as Hartley went into the report with an open mind and eager, yet somber, expectations. The boy had been found by a casual jogger who thrived on early morning workouts, so the details werent hidden by the police. Then his heart stopped. There was a banging at the door, three loud knocks that rattled his senses in what had been silence in the dark. With shivers crawling all over his body, his eyes wide with realization and shock, Hartley rose to his feet and steadily moved towards his door in the next room over. Every step seemed to fall into nothing, and the world seemed immense around him, like everything like swirling and expanding. Then he reached the door and took the handle firmly, clenching his fingers tightly on the warm, curved piece of metal before turning it and pulling the weighty wooden door open. In the dark of the night, looking small, frail, and grieving was Daisy holding herself while wearing a shoddy rain jacket and a pair of sweatpants. It was obvious she hadnt dressed before coming over. Darrens dead, she sniffed, her eyes stained a gross red from crying. Her lip was still quivering, snot dripping from her nose. They...they found him in the forest...hes dead...I didnt want to be at home. He chuckled, knowing full well he could never type fast enough to finish that night, but he would at ~ 13 ~ Hartley only stood and looked at her, the girl he had spent the last few weeks with, bonding with, treating her like a guest in his home, a friend, and a minute earlier he wouldve welcomed her in with comforting arms; however I wanted to come here, the story..it makes this all seem not real, I dont want this to seem real she sniffled loudly, looking as though she would break down in tears again. Its you Hartley muttered hollowly, taking a step back. Mr. Salk? she asked quietly, lips still quivering, her hands tucked firmly under each other and out of sight as she shivered. I saw the description of what happened to him Hartley said, inching backwards further as Daisy took her first step into the house. And it, its just like how you described the death you wrote for me to write...youre the killer ..You saw the news she said somberly, her expression shifting on a dime from sadness to regret to extreme guilt. Every death you wrote for the story, Hartley started, his heart pounding in his throat. You didnt blindly come up with those deaths...those were the real deaths that you caused You werent supposed to find out, she said softly, still appearing distraught as she steadily moved further into the house after him as he backed away. Not yet. Why? he asked plainly. Whyd you kill all those people? You wouldnt understand. Hartley backed into his desk chair, the plastic roller seat bumping away from his rump loudly as the wheels spun against the ground. Being in his work room diverted his attention to his computer and the novel. Why help me write about it all? You helped me write it, everything you put in, every death, every character detail, were things you knew because youre the killer...why? Because Daisy began, seemingly searching her head for words she had previously memorized but lost in the moment. Frustration flushed across her for a moment, but washed away and the guilt came back. Its your book, Hartley, youre the author. And when everyone sees it, theyll think youre the killer writing about your own story...and I can go free. No, Ill tell, Ill tell them it was you, Hartley announced carefully. Ill delete it! he snapped and whipped around to the small laptop on the desk; however, just as he was about to work his fingers across the keyboard and delete the lengthy nonfiction account, he heard the click of a revolver and turned to see Daisy with a heavy pistol in her gloved hands. She looked despairing. Im sorry, she whimpered, beginning to cry again. I knew what I planned to do from the beginning... but...but- she said, her words breaking as she tried to talk. Hartley could see her hands shaking terribly. I didnt think Id like you so much, that youd actually become a real friend. I am your friend, Daisy, Hartley said stiffly, making sure to keep still in wake of the weapon pointed at him from just a few feet away. His heart was pounding even harder now. What did you plan? he inquired, keen on keeping her talking. Help you write your book, and make it exactly like what you were trying to avoid similarities with. Then everyone would see, and you would be accused of the murders, and I would just be the young girl you tried to victimize, she explained morosely, sniffling loudly. How far did you get in the story? How far in what I left you to write? All of it, Hartley said to her. I got to the end of your planning, I wrote everything you left for me, but Daisy, its okay, you dont have to do this. Your plan was great, brilliant, and...I need more like that. The police dont have any evidence or leads to point to you, just the story, so we can scrap it, get ~ 14 ~ rid of it completely and just go on with our lives. Ill keep your secret, he said wholeheartedly, ready to do anything to save his life, and hers. As he spoke he realized that he really did care about her, and she really was a friend to him. Put the gun down, and we can start a new story, and no one else has to die. Hartley gave her the warmest smile he could muster, hoping to see some flicker of agreement in Daisys watery eyes, then moved as carefully as he could to try and resolve the scene with a hug; the most cliche climax conclusion he could think of. Daisy cried out as she pulled the trigger on the gun, her aim not failing her and the bullet drilling between Hartleys eyes. Her mentor and friend toppled over on the ground clumsily, falling with a thud, and after a second of silent shock Daisy regained her thoughts and worked fast. She put the gun in his hand, bolted to the computer, and wrote. Her nimble fingers transversed the keyboard at record speed like they always did and she finished the story, she finished the story writing as Hartley who confessed to the murders and killed himself so they could never catch him, leaving his final novel, leaving a shocking conclusion to his career from someone so desperate for an original story he would kill for it. As Daisy had it, the killer had finished a satisfying story before ending his life, while she was just a young girl accidentally caught in the middle of everything. ~ 15 ~ I AM B y Te s h i m a A n d e rs o n I am a beautiful woman I wonder if my mother knew her beauty I hear the cries of children just like me singing a song that matches the rhythm of my heart I see notes scattered and shattered like promises I want to have a love that buoys me when I am drowning in myself I am a beautiful woman I pretend that youre still here with me I feel that I am a slow pounding blues song I touch the feelings that arent I worry why I am so lost I cry selfishly for the little girl who never was a little girl I am a beautiful woman I understand that if you could do it all again you would do it differently I say Ill be a changed reflection of you I dream of a day that I am true to myself more than I am to others I try to grow, heal and feel I hope my voice reaches your heart I am a beautiful woman ~ 16 ~  U N T I T L E D | P H OTO G R A P H Y | C A L E B T I N S L E Y Reason to Change B y K e v i n Po t t s I remember the exact moment when I was shown with a few words how bleak my future would be if I didnt change my ways. It wasnt the words that stood out as being my impetus to change so much as it was who they came from. At twenty years old and three years into a life sentence, I found myself at Wallens Ridge State Prison, one of Virginias two supermax prisons. Being young and hardheaded, it didnt take long until I started clashing with the guards and found myself in segregation after an assault on a guard with a weapon. At Wallens Ridge, oppression hangs heavy in the air, and there is constant tension between the guards and inmates. This is due to the guards wanton abuse of authority and inmates unwillingness to comply with orders. Being in segregation, I was around the worst of the guards that worked there, and on a daily basis, I watched them terrorize inmates. In retaliation for writing complaints against guards, inmates would be denied food for days on end, and I have witnessed inmates who were handcuffed and shackled get thrown to the floor were they were beaten for resisting. All of that fosters hatred, and I started standing up to them alongside any other inmate who did the same, and I would encourage other inmates to stand up as well. This led the guards to hate me as much as I started to hate them. After three years of fighting with the guards and in response to a forced cell entry, I was put on rec. and shower alone in an attempt to isolate me as much as possible. Forced cell entries are used when an inmate refuses to be handcuffed and exit a cell. The guards will put on full riot gear, then spray tear gas into the cell before they rush into the cell in an attempt to subdue the inmate by any means necessary. It is violence personified and usually ends with the inmate beaten and bloody. ~ 18 ~ After about a month being on rec. and shower alone, a guard opened the gunport in the control booth above me and said, What the hell is wrong with you? I had no idea what he was talking about and said as much. My first thought was that he was talking about the intensity of the workout routine that I was doing. The guard then asked me what I thought was going to happen as a result of the way I was acting. Again, I had no idea what he was talking about. I figured that since I was already in seg., there was nothing more that could be done to me. This guard proceeded to tell me that what would happen is the administration would decide that I would never be let out of seg. and one day as I was fighting with the guards they would accidentally kill me. More was said but nothing else mattered. It was those words that hit home like nothing had before. Not necessarily because of the words themselves, because my family had told me much the same before. Those words hit home because of who they came from. I couldnt fathom why a guard, whom I could only assume hated me, would attempt to give me good advice. So I thought about what he said for days. I looked back at the things I was doing and attempted to see them from his point of view. It was like I had been wearing blinders and they had finally been removed. The ramifications of my actions became evident, and I made the decision to change. Modifying my behavior was not an easy process, and it began with learning how to care again. After being sentenced to life in prison. I quickly quit caring about anything and it was both a blessing and a curse. The absence of emotion allowed me to stand up to the guards and fight with them. Because, in my head, there was no longer anything that could be done to me. Unfortunately, not car- ing also shielded me from seeing how my actions affected my family. Not caring becomes a habit like smoking or biting ones fingernails, and it takes time to break yourself out of it. For a few days after that conversation, I paced the cell thinking, and talking to myself trying to figure out what to do, I quickly came to the realization that my actions were an indicator of immaturity and the selfishness that comes with it. So in order to change, I realized that I had to grow up. It took about a year from the day of that conversation until I as released from seg and I havent looked back. My relationships with family are better and now I have as much freedom as possible under the circumstances. The path to maturity that I took isnt one that I would recommend to most people. Fortunately, it worked for me at a time when I dont think anything else would have. It ended up being easier than I expected. More than anything else, simply making the conscious decision to change was enough. In the moments when relapse was near, I thought of the conversation with that guard and how my actions would affect my family. I couldnt stand to hear the disappointment in my mothers voice anymore and it started bothering me to know that I was letting her down, and I realized that I didnt want to be that person anymore. ~ 19 ~ HOMELESS DEFINED B y A r n i t a R i ch a rd s o n How do I come back from where Ive been? Too broke to help myself; not broke enough to get any help. I work every day trying to provide my way. A law-abiding citizen trying to add to civility but What about my stability? Denied credit only for them to say Ive fallen too far. Denied an apartment only to remind me that Im homeless for sure. Approved for stamps but denied full benefits $17 is what I get. Just because I dont pay rent. What part of Im homeless do they not get? Where is all the money I paid into this country? Why cant I get help after all Ive added to this lot? Im not one to stand and beg for pennies with a cup My self-respect and pride will not let me do that much. Some days it seems as if God does not hear me. Trying my best to stay in faith and trust Him to deliver me from this place... Im not sure what Im supposed to do when Im trusting and believing the best I can. Be careful when you share your struggle with those that have a form of godliness, but deny the power thereof. They rarely listen to what you have to say cause really theyve never been this way. They quote scriptures just to get you out of their face. Its a lonely place to be and sometimes I get really angry. Feeling like Im in a place of bondage and wondering where is my God. He knows what I have need of before I ask but I was in this mess long before I knew I would have to ask. Some days I think that it would be better to live in my car but the cold blankets me and I miss what I need most, a home. ~ 20 ~ Why was I chosen to go through this? I know that it is always to bless someone else. But there are days when I dont feel like enduring just so someone else can be encouraged. Trying hard not to complain but this situation is absolutely insane. P RO N O I A | D I G I TA L | JAC O B E A N O D I D E A N D J U L I A G R A M M E R ~ 21 ~ Crumble B y To b i n M o o re THE FIRST IMPACT was at the top of my head. It was just a tiny chink then, somewhere to the right of my scalp. As the hand on the state-issued clock ticked by, the crevice grew and I felt my brain separate slightly, the existing fissures forming vast valleys. It cut across my face like a battle wound, wrapping around the back of my neck. For a long time that afternoon its slow constriction stopped just above my heart, each pounding beat daring the crack to move closer. Despite my rapidly fragmenting frame, I couldnt sit still. Pacing around the room, I counted my steps. I caressed the fingernail scratches on the table, trying to comfort those who had put them there. I counted how many stuffed animals had fewer than two eyeballs, and I made constellations of the dots in the ceiling tile. I counted my steps again. I tallied the dusty puzzle boxes with likely fewer than their advertised quantity of pieces. I wondered to myself if pictures with missing pieces lost their value completely or only proportionally to the amount of absent space. I counted my steps once more. On step fourteen the first cop came back into the room. She asked once again if I was hungry. I said no, surprised she didnt notice my stomach would soon be overtaken. As she guided me out into the hall, she explained that my sister would tell me what was happening. The conversation that followed is one that I still dream about regularly. Ive lost my perception of the true story, accepting the concoction produced by time and reflection. In my head the story both fades and develops detail at the same rate. Its the only memory I have that breathes and swells, whose impact seeps into my everyday. Life moved forward awkwardly as the shards of my life grew thinner. My mother and sister leaned on alcohol, my little siblings leaned on the ignorance of youth, and I figured out quickly that nothing around was stable enough to hold me up. The giant crack down my whole body began to splinter and expand across my entire being. Silently, I crumbled and rebuilt myself each day. Every ~ 22 ~ morning I piled my limbs in front of the mirror and arranged them until they looked whole. I stuffed my skeleton into clothes that barely fit and anxiously adjusted and affixed the bits that threatened to fall right off. I confidently carried my mangled body down the hallways at school, so no one would think to look for fractures in my skin. I even went to a party, once. I feel like I havent seen you here before. I looked up from the solo cup I was clinging to and into the smirking face of a large man in a Wizards jersey. He was framed by multicolored Christmas lights and Greek-letter-laden banners, leering at me in a haze of smoke. Despite clearly hearing what he said, I furrowed my eyebrows and put on a strained face. What? I mouthed. I gestured at my ear, then at the massive bass speakers only a few feet from us. It was not by accident that I stood in the loudest spot in the house. Up until then, the deafening music had provided an excellent shield from frat bro small talk. He leaned in to my ear, the pubescent stubble on his face scratching my cheek as his mouth formed the words he practically screamed. Come up to my room with me; its quieter up there, he bellowed. He lost his balance and swayed slightly, a clue to his intoxication still secondary to the stench of cheap beer coming off him in waves, and his body pressed into mine as his hand hit the wall next to my head. My heart sped and pounded, an alarm in my chest I wished he could hear. He leaned back upright, chuckling and shrugging, and held up his beer can as a cop-out white flag. Im not sure what set me off that night. It might have been the Top 40 Hits on repeat or the shots of tequila in my cup. It may have been the moment I noticed everyone in the room was so drunk they werent even making eye contact. But, realizing I was panicking, I began to count. I counted the ping-pong balls on the floor and the flags in the room. I counted the dozens of empty, crushed cans on the tables. I squeezed out from in front of the man and began counting my steps. At step twenty-one, he reappeared. Blocking the doorway, he flashed me a silver dollar smile. I mirrored his grin and then firmly gripped the bottom left-hand corner of my mouth, cleanly tearing the placation off my face. I placed it in his hand and turned away. I felt him take hold of my wrist. Without looking back at him, I let that arm crumble off. F RO G | G L A Z I N G | A L E E S H A M Y R I E ~ 23 ~ MY WINDOW By Emma Keppel Standing by my bed and in my world, Curtained with flower lace, It looks out on a memory meadow, My window. My window in the morning, The sunrise glows like my dream, Poking light through eyelets Waking my six-year-old captivation. Bouncing on beds Was starting the day dangerously, Mom reaches, Dont fall through the glass, Bunny. My window in the evening, Summer light glows and winter light fades, You did not make your bed this morning, Polar Bear sits upright. I make pictures in the sky, Drawn with branches and leaves, On the azure canvas made with love. My window in the night, Keep lookout for Santas sleigh and reindeer, ~ 24 ~ Leave the latch loose for the tooth-fairy, Ready for her dainty fingers to open. Moon travels across the pane, Its here, then there, Waning, waxing, I love you too, Hush, hush, Quiet, Sister is still snoring. Letting in light To illuminate the senses of my childhood, My window. ~ 25 ~ Silence B y A s p e n E i ch e l bu r g e r 2 0 1 8 H o r ro r S t o r y C o n t e s t W i n n e r IT WAS OCTOBER 31st, Halloween. I was house sit- ting for my parents while they were away for their anniversary. Embarrassingly enough, that was my gift for them - house sitting. I was a broke college student, and they had filled the pantry for me, how could I pass it up? Plus I loved my childhood home, mostly. The only thing I didnt really like was the fact that it was miles from anyone or anything, and it was way too quiet. Until the doorbell rang. Suddenly, I was hit with intense, unexplainable fear. It knocked me right off my feet. As I hit the floor, whimpering, I crawled behind the couch and curled up, trying to steady my breathing. I knew I had locked the door, a precaution I had thought unnecessary out here, but I guess I was wrong. Were there any unlocked windows? Did mom and dad lock the windows? I didnt know. But did it even matter? I stopped breathing, realizing that the door was opening. A cool breeze wafted through the family room, and the door didnt make a sound. Something...not human stood in the doorway. It was big, and growing. It could barely squeeze through the door, but it did, and it set its eyes directly on me. I screamed like a banshee, deafeningly loud, until I blacked out. K, I FOUND YOU BLACKED OUT, WITH IT TOWERING OVER Like I said before, there werent neighbors for miles. There certainly shouldnt have been any trick or treaters around. I cautiously bridged the gap between the kitchen and the front door. My hand hovered over the door handle and I put my ear against the old wooden door, listening for something, anything. Breathing, perhaps, or the excited chatter of trick or treaters. The silence that met my ears was deafening. I could feel it. It was tangible. I woke up on the floor behind the couch, the door wide open, the wind howling. The tv was on, as was the radio, and my car, which was parked protectively in front of the porch, the radio emitting static out of the open windows. It was so loud I couldnt think. On the floor next to me lay a handwritten letter. It read: ~ 26 ~ YOU. IM SORRY YOU HAD TO ENCOUNTER THAT, BUT YOU DID A GOOD JOB - SCREAMING IS OUR BEST DEFENSE, THEY CANT STAND IT NOISE. ITS POISON TO THEM. ESCAPED, BUT I HAVE MADE IT LOUD ENOUGH FOR YOU HERE THAT IT WILL NOT BE ABLE TO COME BACK. DONT WORRY, THEY ONLY HUNT ON YOU SHOULDNT BE BOTHERED AGAIN. HALLOWEEN - BEST OF LUCK. Its been exactly ten years since that night tonight. Im recording all of this with every single machine (phone, ipod, laptop) at full volume back home in New York, but theres been a power outage, and the batteries wont last much longer without a charger Its coming back tonight. Ive been fighting it for ten years now, every Halloween. Ive screamed until my vocal cords gave out - I am now legally mute, and screaming is impossible for me. I cant fight it anymore - what exactly it is I dont know, but I think it got the man hunting for it, as the letters stopped coming years ago. Im next. Whoever gets this, please, never let it get to you - it feeds off of the silence, is almost one with the silence. Even when you go to bed, with nothing but your fan running, it lurks, waiting. You are not safe. The silence is not safe...noise is our only salvation.  E X S QU I S I T E C O R P S E | D I G I TA L | A RT 1 8 0 C L A S S C O L L A B O R AT I O N WELL WISHES B y Jo h n e t t e H o ra c e Relatives sending loved ones off to their graves, Family giving their lifes savings, contributing to the demise of their own blood Promises escaping the lips of the departing as they board the boat, But now they can only answer the prayers of loved ones from heaven. I watched hundreds of Africans journey to the promised land Italy through Libya, Libya, the black mans grave. We watch in horror as viral videos of our brothers and sisters being tortured circulate the media, Africans, being sold as slaves for a few hundred dollars Africans, the things we go through in search of solitude Fleeing struggles only to get entangled by serpents. Money, the only antidote for the Libyan poison Evil posing as good, promising safe pasture through the Mediterranean. But who can stand without sinking in quicksand? Oh that baby put in an inflatable boat with her mother, headed 200 miles in a boat that could only travel 12. Human? How could your conscience let you drown babies? Poverty is an epidemic that eats at the conscience of those affected. The bridge they saw in Libya was only a one-way street to grave danger Captured, handcuffed, treated like dogs and starved, bodies burned for money they dont have, what a literal hell of a journey. Crying and hoping to be buried in decent graves, Warning loved ones not to repeat their mistake, ~ 28 ~ But the stubborn still choose to ignore the pleas of their dying loved ones. They cant be stopped, determined to succeed, All we can say is well wishes. ~ 29 ~ THE JOURNEY B y S o f i e C o u ch HEY THERE. I rubbed the back of her hand as she came out of it. You were out a long time. Huh? She was still groggy. Re-awakening usually only took about thirty minutes. How long? I looked down at the watch on my wrist, and checked her pulse. It was a little accelerated, but not outside of safe parameters. Little over an hour. What were you studyin? I asked. The woman on the gurney next to my chair rolled her head to the side. Theres a look they all get at the end of a download. She licked her lips. She would have the munchies, too. That was another common after effect. Psychology. Whats that? She gestured with her chin toward the book that was open in my lap. I held it up. The Odyssey. Ah. Western Culture. Er, Homer, actually. Youve read it? Small talk helped with the re-awakening. She started to sit up, so I dropped my book on the bed and put a hand on her upper arm. Slowly, she swung her legs over the edge of the gurney, the paper cover crinkling and tearing. Here. I handed her a cup of water, sweaty with ice. There were cookies, too, but that could wait. Re-awakening could take a while and she had been out longer than usual. She laughed. Read it? I downloaded the whole class just two weeks ago. Id have taken the second part, but they make you wait a month between downloads. Thats bullshit. What? My voice was edged with concern. You got a download today? Before your month was up? ~ 30 ~ She shrugged. S no big deal. She reached for the packet of cookies on the bedside table. Im a regular. Cracking into the wrapper, she shoved a whole cookie into her mouth. How? She narrowed her eyes, sizing me up. Her gaze fell to my book on the bed, and her mouth turned up into a smile. It was one of those smiles you might use with a precocious child. Well, they recommend that you complete an associates degree in no fewer than twenty months. Thats one three credit course per month. The download takes about an hour and the re-awakening, about thirty minutes. At that rate, its no faster than just taking the live class. This way, leaves a lot of down time unless you double up. The school wont let you download any more than one course a month. She smirked. They wont let me, she pointed to her chest, take more than one download per month. But my sister, and again, she pointed at her own chest, can take one download per month, too. So a person who is in the system as two people could each take one download on an alternating semi-monthly schedule, cutting the time to graduation in half. I could see that her enthusiasm and talking so soon was wearing her out. She leaned back on the pillow again, and I handed her a cup of yogurt. You can tolerate dairy, cant you? Sure. She took the cup from my hand. I noticed a tremor in her hand too. How long have you been reading your book? She tipped her chin toward my dog-eared copy. Im not a fast reader. Im only about half-way through. Time? About a week. I can only read during breaks. My job at the school did not require an advanced degree, but it did require my attention, especially immediately before and after a download. During the download, I was pretty much free just a warm body in the lab while the information was disseminated. You should avoid looking at screens and devices for twenty-four hours. Places to go. Things to see and do. Like I said, Im not a particularly fast reader. She sat up again, this time, shoving a packet of cookies in her pocket for the road, then looking around for the bag that came in with her. During the download, all personal items are stored in a bag on a hook at the end of the gurney. She grabbed the canvas bag off of the hook and hoisted it onto her shoulder. Her eyelids fluttered. No wonder if this was her second download in two weeks. You should consider just downloading the book next time. She opened her eyes again, like a too sleepy person behind the wheel. You should schedule a download for yourself. Like I said, we covered The Odyssey in Western Culture. She looked me over from head to toe. Was that pity on her face? Sure, the more you downloaded, the faster you could gain the degree, then the job, joined by potential higher earnings. I lived paycheck-to-paycheck, but what did I need with faster cars or multiple homes. I had books, an apartment, food. I looked down at my clothes. Scrubs counted. I smiled patiently. Downloads were expensive. I had one once. You held on to the information only so long as you made connections to that information. Im a whiz at remembering the students who have come through my lab, but like the information that was downloaded a semesters worth of information in as little as an hour you had to make associations to enhance the neural pathways. Its like trying to remember a person youve just met. It helps if you also learn five things about that person. Those things ensure multiple connections and strengthen the knowing of a thing. The student faded out again and I let her sleep. It was nearly fifteen minutes before she opened her eyes again. Consider it. Download next time. I put my book into one of the large pockets on the front of my scrubs. Ill consider it. It really is the only way to remain competitive. You dont wanna be stuck here, plugging other people up to downloads for the rest of your life. Always the bridesmaid. I guess thats fine if the destination is your goal. What time is it? There was only a flicker of doubt. Whats that? Gettin on four oclock. The journey. Sometimes, knowledge is the end goal. Dont forget the journey in pursuit of the destination. She looked to her phone. Phones are not allowed in the lab, but this woman was obviously not bothered by rules. She left, looking twice over her shoulder. Was that a glimmer of doubt? I opened my book... and waited for my four-thirty student. ~ 31 ~ NECROMANCY B y A l y s i a To w n s l e y I have the devil in my pen that which has passed demons in my eyes and we relinquish morality I stand upon coffins made of stone to some other place, some other time and I whisper my thoughts into the ears of corpses something beyond fate and try to raise the dead the world becomes stone coffins it takes maybe a touch and I leave behind whispers lock of hair, bit of blood black magic, madness a voice ringing in the dark but the question remains blue white sparks can I raise the dead and the question remains if I am one of them? can I raise the dead? they call me a sorceress because I can do the things they cant I can breathe life into stone hearts carve redemption into sinners I can make revenge feel like the greatest gift but there are things even I cannot do thats the question, isnt it if we can bring back ~ 32 ~ P O I N T I L I S M | L I L L I E M A LO N E TANGLED B y G i l b e r t S o m e rs I fought relentlessly with the lines; bright white and crystallized tethers bound unbreaking to soul sails, caught for lift, left for gain, writing long lost love across the sky in winding patterns of acrid gold remembering the ties to you. Half a century is a long time to be tangled. ~ 34 ~ GMO Poster Final.pdf 1 4/23/18 2:20 PM C M Y CM MY CY CMY K A Planet For Tomorrow D I G I TA L | D I G I TA L | LO U I S A TO R R E S The Fall Line A narrow zone that marks the geological boundary between an upland region and a plain, distinguished by the occurrence of falls and rapids where rivers and streams cross it.  ...

... vol.9 I The Fall Line Piedmont Virginia Community College presents spring 2017 vol.9 The Fall Line Spring 2017,Volume 9 The Fall Line, Spring 2017, is the ninth volume selected, edited, and produced by Writers Unite, the PVCC Creative Writing Club. Annette Cashatt & Russell Wright, Co-Presidents Jenny Koster, Adviser Editors: Elizabeth Angeley Annette Cashatt Russell Wright Lay-out and Design: Catelyn Kelsey Special thanks to the PVCC Copy Center for printing The Fall Line and to Aaron Miller and his Communication Design II class for designing this edition. table of contents GABOR - GINA EDWARDS 1 STINK BUG WAR, 2010 - KRISTY MANGOLD 2 ONE TINY DROP - EMERAUDE KALULA 6 THE SWIM - SANTANDAR BRUNAL 8 I GET IT - KARYN WILLIAMS 12 WOLF IN WOLFS CLOTHING - MORGANA ALLEN 15 HOMETOWN - CATHERINE MORRIS 26 A STORY I TOLD US ONCE - MATTHEW PAYSOUR 28 LUCKY - KARYN WILLIAMS 35 CHOPPED - ELLIE-ANNE DANIEL 36 FRIENDLYS - GINA EDWARDS 42 BYGONE LOVE - ANNETTE CHASHATT 46 THREE LAYERS - CAMERON STEWART 48 CALM - ELIZABETH ANGELEY 56 A GROCERY STORE VISIT - ABBIGAIL TRAASETH 58 MY FATHERS HANDS - GINA EDWARDS 60 CHASING THE DARKNESS AS FOOLS - AERIAL PERKINS-GOODE 64 STUPID - CHRISTOPHER ALAN HENDERSON 66 FOREST OF ASH - SKYE SCOTT 70 Gabor Gina Edwards - Poetry Its raining tonight Thunder Lightning I had a dream I was walking Through the rain at dusk Down a dim and winding road Guarded by tall pines that Spoke like the roar of ocean waves Hurry! Hurry! I came to a wide open field that Invited, whispered, Relax, relax I was bringing you A basket of oranges 1 Stink Bug War, 2010 Kristy Mangold - Creative Non-fiction It was late spring in 2010, during that nervous time in between paying rent on the first and getting paid on the fifth. I was nineteen years old and living all by myself for the first time. I was working at a coffee shop, and barely scraping by. My house was on the western edge of Charlottesville, down by Ragged Mountain Reservoir, on the right just after the pavement turns to gravel.The Craigslist ad had contained those magic words,no credit check required, and so Id met with the old shifty-eyed landlord Arthur and signed the hand-written lease.The rent was high for such a shabby place, but I was willing to pay up if it meant I was out from under my mothers roof. The house was round and twelve sided, with the door on one side and large windows on the other eleven.The unusual shape is how I learned the word dodecahedron. The outside had wood siding, unevenly stained dark brown.The yard had patches of grass choking in a fine layer of gravel dust. Inside, the floors were sanded plywood painted bright, primary blue.The walls had vertical white siding stained brown in places by years of nicotine build-up.There was a Barbie stove, a tan refrigerator from the 70s, a miniature bathroom, a bed, a sagging futon, a coffee table, a chair, and a Beatles poster tacked to the wall. It was my slice of paradise. The day of the war I got home from work around four. I walked in and almost The Fall Line immediately heard a crunch under my shoe, and got a whiff of something sour. It was citrusy, pungent, and foul. The utter amount of them amazed me.They were half an inch long, with a mottled brown shield shaped back.They werent totally unfamiliar to me. Id heard the stink bugs had come across the ocean, from China, or Vietnam, a foreign invader with no natural predators in Virginia. Since none of the windows sealed all the way, the little critters were nothing new. Being a lazily tolerant person, a few bugs and I coexisted pretty well. But this was different.This was a full-scale invasion. Their dry corpses were piling up in the window sills.Above their dead comrades several more ambled aimlessly on the window glass, drawing little looping trails behind them.They were crawling through the cracks in the windows and the space under the door- up through the spaces where the floor didnt connect completely with the walls.There was a constant whirring like miniature fans, and Id watch them drunkenly fly around in meaningless circles.With sharp taps theyd bounce off the walls, off each other, off the side of my face. Everything smelled musty and buggy. Despite never seeming to do anything, they were annexing my house with sheer numbers. For all the undeniable grossness of my current living situation, I was still hungry. They were, after all, just little bugs. I went to the Barbie stove and made a lackluster dinner of beans and rice.As I was stirring the pot I heard that now familiar buzzing, getting closer.The stink bug dive bombed, pinging against the back of the stove and ricocheting right into the pot, where the mottled brown body camouflaged itself perfectly with the pinto beans. I fished it out quickly, looking down into the pot. Maybe it wasnt ruined? I 3 peeked into the cupboard.A single generic can of cream of mushroom soup glared at me. So I tasted the beans and rice. It was awful.There was the taste of beans, and rice, and a bitter, oily taste cutting through it all. Thats when I snapped.These buggers were going down.They didnt pay rent. Now was the time for action. I noticed how they were attracted to light, how they seemed to congregate lazily on the sunny windows and in the light fixtures. It was sunset when I implemented my counterattack. I turned on only the overhead light, opened all the cupboards and the bathroom door, and sat back on the lumpy futon, watching and waiting. As it got darker outside, the single light seemed to grow brighter.The stinkbugs started moving toward it, walking upside down on the ceiling in little streams, reaching the light and falling into the shallow glass bowl of the shade. I watched this procession for a couple hours, mesmerized as they marched to their demise. Steadily they crawled up the twelve walls and onto the ceiling, moving towards the exact center of circle. By nighttime there were hundreds of them in the bowl, a dense mass of bugs crawling over and through each other. I turned on the roaring vacuum, teetered on the edge of the coffee table, and, grinning like a crazed person, sucked them all up. It felt amazing, such instant gratification. I was merciless. In under a minute all my enemies were swept down a dark tube and into the belly of the beast. I wrapped the vacuum bag in layers of plastic and dropped it in my neighbors trash, a half mile away. The Fall Line Laying in the dark, in the silence after the war, I thought about how good it felt to have an enemy to fight against. Something concrete I could win against, me versus them, a war. It was nothing like the slow trudging battle of existing young, broke, and directionless. I daydreamed of what Id get when I got paid. Steak and potatoes, vacuum bags, and duct tape too. FINAL PROJECT Annie Richardson 5 One Tiny Drop of Water Emeraude Kalula - Fiction I remember the night that my world turned upside down. My eyes were fixed on the moon; cold tears ran on my pretty cheeks.There was no star to kiss me on the neck.The sky was so dark that little wind refused to provide me its warm tender.The night seemed so long that my heart was torn into pieces. I called to the end of the world; unfortunately for me, nothing happened. Suddenly an unspoken thought led my agitated little feet to the shower.When I arrived in the shower, my dark brown eyes began to look steadily into the mirror.Then I started to admire my wet cheeks.Why are they so steady? A feeling of bitterness paralyzed my heart. One second after, I decided to endure, always stronger.Then my agitated hands precipitated to the shower head and turned on the shower. Just a tiny drop of water on my nose gave me a smile.Then I took the next step and plunged into this auspicious deluge, a charming feeling invading me.An invisible hand gently caressed my body, those hands so fragile that it took my breath away.While smiling I began to adore life.Ah how beautiful is this tiny drop of water, a drop of water that erased all my misery, a drop that will give me an everlasting peace in my sleep.This drop of water saved a whole night for me. The Fall Line RUSSIAN Jack Gump 7 The Swim Santander Brunal - Creative Non-Fiction Summer of 1986, in Far Rockaway Beach, Queens, N.Y.We used to go there a few times of year with my fathers longtime friends, Raphael, Evita and their three kids. They had two boys and one girl:Alex, the oldest; Ivette; and Neil the youngest son.Along with my two brothers and sister, I used to love hanging out with them. Unfortunately, they were not related, yet we considered them cousins just the same.We would often pair up, my older brother Charles with Alex while my older sister, Lesly, would spend her time with Ivette.As the youngest of the group, Neil and I would sneak around and play tricks on both our sisters. It was fun to make them miserable. I had a younger brother, too--Harold--, but he was young. During these hot summer days, he was content to be with mom and all the other younger kids, playing under the shade of the boardwalk.They would spend their time digging holes, filling buckets and feeling the sting of sand in their shorts. We all spent our time swimming in the surf, trying to keep the haze and humidity of summer off our sun-red necks.As hot as it was, we were grateful for the cold Atlantic waves that would crash on the beach. Far Rockaway, with its long, worn and splintered boardwalk, was infamous for the sudden rip currents that would drag people out in a hurry.You would often watch people getting pulled out gasping for breath by the lifeguards.Today they wouldnt be any help. The Fall Line We were having so much fun that I hadnt noticed Neil had disappeared with his friend Hector up on the boardwalk.We continued to fight the surf and laugh when somebody would get rolled by the thunderous waves, the loud snap and deep growl as the energy would dissipate from the waves on to the beach.As the day got late, we could see the life guards closing their umbrellas up and down the beach.The loud screaming of kids and the constant sound of music also began to fade as people made their way to the parking lots. Just as the beach became less crowded, Neil returned with Hector. It wasnt the same 15-year-old Neil that had left. He was slurring his speech, and Hector was moving around like he had the ocean inside him. His brother Alex gave him a disapproving stare, but Neil didnt notice it. Suddenly Hector and Neil grabbed Lesly and Ivette. They pushed them into the surf.We all laughed and swam around for a while fighting the waves that seemed to get heavier this time of the day. As we began to make our way out of the surf, I turned around to see where everybody was. Everybody was out except for Neil and Hector. Looking toward the water, I stood there in shock. Neil was in the distance bobbing up and down trying to keep his head above the water. Hector was motioning frantically. I looked over to tell someone that Neil was in trouble, but they were already under the boardwalk drying out.Trying to make my way to them, I swam, ducked through some waves and swam some more. The tide pulled me further, but by the time I reach them, I was breathing hard, and my muscles were burning. Just as I started to get my breath, Neil pulled under in a total panic. I fought him off and pushed him away. Neil, what the hell are you doing? I yelled in terror. I could see the desperation on his face as he flapped and flopped his arms in a frenzied attempt to hold on to something. I needed to calm him down, but Hector also looked alarmed. His eyes were wide open, red and continuously looking at me and then to Neil. Once I gained my senses, I told Hector to swim for help.While I continued to 9 paddle, I talked to Neil more calmly,If you want me to help you, you cant drag me under.There we were staring at each other, paddling to stay afloat.Calm down and float, I said with more stern voice. I reached over and put my arm around his waist. I told him You need to paddle too, as we began to make our way in, but Neil wasnt floating very well. He was flapping his arms, but it wasnt helping.As we swam, we would get consumed by the large swells that were this far out from the break. Each time I went under, I swallowed my share of seawater. The beach sand was so distant, and the more I looked, the more scared I got. As I began praying,God, please help me over and over in my head, strangely, I could feel the warm sunlight on my face. After a while, I told Neil to float, I let go, and I tried to touch the bottom with my feet.What a mistake, we were deep, and it really freaked me out.Neil, you have to swim! I yelled. He looked at me and I think he understood what I was saying. Luckily, with the greater urgency, we had reached the breaking waves. I was really tired now, and after a while, I could feel the ground.Just a little bit longer, I thought.The waves were heavy, I got turned upside down and swallowed some more sea water. Neil didnt look good, his arms just barely were moving over his head as he paddled in. Finally, we caught a wave that propelled us to the edge of the sand. Crawling out of the sea foam, I could see Alex reach for Neil and everybody gathering around us. I could hardly catch air in my lungs. Neil was practically face down in the sand, when suddenly I saw his body lurch.A mixture of bile, beer and hotdogs spilled out of him. I stood there shaking, cold and feeling kind of faint.The life guards ran over to us, but there was nothing they could do.Their shifts had ended, and legally they could not help him.They instructed us to call for 911. Just as my body began to warm up, Neils mother and father began to thank me over and over again. Once the ambulance arrived The Fall Line they placed Neil on a stretcher.With the stretcher on board, his mother began to cry. The ambulance left with its sirens blaring moving the crowd that had gathered. I felt proud of myself. Several years later I would tell Neil jokingly Hey you owe me! and when life feels as if it is pounding down on me like those waves that turned me upside down that day, I never panic.I just keep swimming. 11 I Get It Karyn Williams - Poetry I get it; I really do. I believe All Lives Matter, too. Im saddened by the fact that people have died. Im frightened by the fact that cops lost their lives. The justice system isnt providing justice. Look at Hillary Clinton; shes not even in custody. If youre rich or have power, youre destined to succeed, While the poor folk can barely afford their necessities. If youre born in the system, or sell some dope to make money, Youll get locked up, and be a prison fuck buddy. But answer my question: have you ever walked in my shoes? Been an African American or had your ancestor pay your dues? Has society laughed at you because you hair comes out kinky And tried to fit in, with a relaxer, which is quite stinky? Has your grandma told you stories about her picking cotton? Do you remember yet, or have you forgotten? Our ancestors, tried to pave a way for us in society The Fall Line To still have racism exist after all their rioting. Has your boyfriend ever told you that his friends didnt like you? When finding out the color of his boo? They had the audacity to ask him if he was a Nigger lover. It took everything he had not to punch that sucker. I get it; I really do. I believe that black lives matter, too. AUTHORS NOTE:To live in this world, among many racist individuals is frightening. I was in a newer church, and they did a meet and greet.You go around and shake everyones hand and introduce yourself. I walked up (in a line) to this older lady that was sitting down. She greeted the people in front of me and shook their hands.When I got to her she just frowned, then proceeded to grab my boyfriends hand and shake it. I was in disbelief and frustrated throughout the whole service. I havent been back to that church. I know not everyone is racist or hates black people. I know that there are other nationalities that experience racial backlash as well. I know that not all cops are jerks and treat people like scum. I know there are plenty of people that want to make a difference in this world. I will accept everyone with an open heart and pray for the things that I cannot change. I will try and help those that are less fortunate. I will pray for those who serve and protect us and ask that God keeps them safe and hope they serve through him. I will also pray for those seeking unity in America among all races and ask that they do that in a way that creates peace, not violence. 13 THE STUDENT James Johnson The Fall Line Wolf in Wolfs Clothing Morgana Allen - Fiction I contemplated the wolf lying on my living room floor. Its sides moved in and out almost imperceptibly with shallow breaths, and its grey-brown fur was covered in a film of dust from weeks of lying immobile in the corner. Slowly I picked up the remote, the hard plastic casing so at odds with this soft, graceful creature it controlled.After a minute, I pressed activate. Let me explain.Two months ago, I checked the educational wolf out from the public library. It seemed so exciting to get to study this wolf, the shape of its face and body, the way it walked and ran, even get to hear its beautiful, eerie howl. But then I just never got around to activating it; there was always something that I needed to do instead. So week after week, the wolf lay in the corner gathering dust. Then I got an email from the library:materials discontinued, it said, as well as for liability reasons and DO NOT RETURN.Apparently they werent interested in getting the wolf back -- ever. I called and asked what on earth I was supposed to do with it, and was politely told I could do whatever I wanted with my own possession, since thats what it was now.Then I was politely hung up on. Great.What am I going to do with it? I thought, turning to look at the still 15 creature. So finally I tried it out, activated it.The instant I pressed the button, the wolfs eyes snapped open, nostrils flaring as it surged to its feet. It was much bigger than I had expected, standing up. Its yellow eyes darted to focus on me and my heart skipped a couple beats, even though I knew the wolf couldnt break free from its controls to hurt me. Despite my fear, I had to admire its beauty.While it had been laying in the corner on standby, it had sort of looked like a dog with really gorgeous fur -- dark grey along the back and head, fading to brown and then white toward its belly and muzzle -but now I noticed more differences. For one thing, while its muzzle was long and slim, its head was very wide and boxy, with big poofs of fur on the sides like muttonchops.Also, its tail was thick and puffy, like a foxs, but most of all it just had a wildness about it that I couldnt pinpoint to any one feature. Now the wolfs gaze was going everywhere around the room, nostrils moving as it smelled its surroundings.Who knows what it thought about being inside an apartment. Or maybe it was used to being indoors by now. I had gotten so accustomed to seeing this animal just laying on the floor, unmoving, but now that it was up and aware, the fact that it was a wild predator really hit me; standing in the same room with such a big, potentially dangerous animal was a thing I could feel in my gut. Once my heart slowed and I could tear my eyes away from the wolf (it took a while), I checked out the remotes options. Buttons labelled walk, trot, lope, and run were grouped together, then sleep and groom, and finally, at the bottom, growl, snarl, bark, yelp, and howl.Activate, stand-by, and stop were the biggest buttons, red, at the The Fall Line top of the remote. I really wanted to hear the wolf howl, but didnt want to freak out the people in neighboring apartments, so I settled for walk, and the wolf began to pace around the perimeter of the room, nose still testing the air constantly.After a minute, I tried trot, and the wolf sped up, jogging just like a dog would, and making tight turns in the small room. How would it manage run in such a cramped space? I decided not to test it, pressing stop instead.The wolf lurched to an immediate halt, almost falling on its face from momentum.Sorry, I muttered, and its ears twitched my way. Eyes narrowing, the wolfs lip slowly curled to show disturbingly sharp teeth as a growl filled the air. Woah, now. I definitely hadnt hit the growl button, and the wolf shouldnt be able to do that without my say-so. Suddenly I remembered that emails phrase discontinued for liability reasons, and my adrenaline ramped up again. I didnt know much about educationals except that they were real, living animals taken from the wild that then had controls implanted in their brains, linked to the remotes that came with them. Some people were rabidly against the whole thing, calling it inhumane and disrespectful, and some people thought it was a great scientific achievement. However, judging from the librarys email, it sounded like the animals controls might not as reliable as advertised. And there was nothing standing between those teeth and my skin. Quickly I hit stand-by on the remote; the growl cut off as the wolfs eyelids dropped shut, and its body slowly sank back down to the floor. I stared at the still animal, who was again breathing quietly with closed eyes. What a difference from a minute ago! From harmless conversation piece to dear-godplease-dont- tear-open-my-soft-flesh! Sure, it had only growled, but if it could start to break free to that small extent, would it be able to break away entirely? I threw the remote in the back of a closet, out of sight, wishing I could do the same with the wolf itself. 17 That evening, I had calmed down and was trying to decide whether to go out and be social or stay in my warm apartment. It being winter, in Denver, there was freezing wind and a temperature of five degrees: hm, tough choice, but Ill just stay home, thanks. Moving to Denver had sounded really fun and adventurous, since I had mostly lived on the East coast before, but I hadnt considered just how damn cold it got. In three years, I hadnt gotten used to it at all.Also, I had discovered that I wasnt a big city person. It seemed like no matter where I went, there were people around, or I could hear someone talking or playing music, or the sound of traffic... I felt like I could never be entirely alone. Sometimes I drove up to the mountains just to get some breathing room; the endless vista of the peaks and valleys gave me all the space I needed.That was one thing I did love about Colorado: those huge, endless mountains. For tonight though, Id accept my cramped living quarters in exchange for warmth. I popped some popcorn, got comfy on my beat-up couch, and found my place in the book I was reading. I got to a really gripping part, where the armored biolab vehicle had just been knocked over a jungle cliff by unknown forces, when the heavy throb of a subwoofer came pounding through my apartment wall, tearing me out of the book.Ah yes, my next-door neighbor. For some reason, he would often blast his music for about three minutes, at bass levels that would rattle the walls, then would cut it off abruptly and let quiet resume. I went over once and asked him to turn it down; in reply he grunted and shut the door, and the sound went down about two decibels. Now I just ignored it as best I could.This time, though, my eyes fell on the inactive wolf, still awkwardly in the middle of the floor where I had put it on stand-by. For a second, I was tempted to make it howl, to startle the guy next door into turning off his music.The thought made me grin, but I wasnt sure I wanted to activate the wolf again, much less risk freaking it out with all the noise going on. Instead, I ground my teeth for a few minutes til the bass The Fall Line shut off, then got back into my book. The next day, I mentioned the wolf situation to my coworker, Shane. I didnt like Shane; his eyes were hard and mean, and he had an ego the size of Denver itself.Also he never, ever apologized for anything. But I was trying to make friendly conversation, so I told him about the wolf that had been foisted off on me. Ey, I know some dudes who would take that thing. No one wants to mess with a dude s got a wolf in his place! he said in his tough-guy accent. I wasnt desperate enough to give it to one of Shanes friends.Uh, that doesnt sound really great for the wolf... He scoffed.Man, its only an educational. Not like its a real animal anyway. Theyre just there to do what you make them do. But I remembered the look in the wolfs eyes.That creature had fire in it. Hey, you want a easy way to get rid of it, Shane continued,just thow it in a dumpster. Problem solved. I am not going to throw it in a dumpster, I said, angry.Its a living creature, you know, same as you. I hadnt been treating it that way, though; I had been content to let that same living creature collect dust in my apartment for a month. Suddenly I felt guilty. Im just sayin, it would get it off your hands, Shane said loftily. I was sorry I had brought it up in the first place. Another freezing cold night, this time with sleet piling up outside. It seemed to always be night now; I was desperate for more sunlight.Apparently this was the season- 19 al depression thing, which I had only noticed since I moved Colorado.The far-too-long nights combined with so much cold took all my energy and enthusiasm away; I longed for a beach, for sunlight pouring straight onto my warm skin! Instead I was shrouded in layers and rotting under yellow, artificial lighting, sick of being indoors but unwilling to go out into the bitingly cold darkness. I made some hot chocolate in my tiny kitchen, just for something warm to hold, while contemplating just curling up in bed until spring. Maybe if I had lots of fur, like the wolf, I wouldnt mind the cold and snow. I looked over longingly at its thick, grey-brown coat, then hesitantly put down my mug of hot chocolate and knelt on the rug next to the wolfs softly breathing body. Pushing my fingers into its warm fur, I couldnt believe how thick and dense it was; I could hardly reach through it to touch the wolfs skin. Even the wolfs ears were covered and filled with thick fur. Really it was a gorgeous creature, far too gorgeous for this shabby, pathetic apartment. I felt like a jailer suddenly, keeping it here, but what could I do with it? Now I felt more miserable than before, overwhelmed by the problems in my life. Slowly I lay down and curled up against the wolfs side, burying my face in its soft, warm, musky fur and shutting out the world. I stayed there for a long time, dreaming of being able to open windows and stroll outside without hunching miserably against the cold, dreaming of heat and sand and sun. A few days later, my friend Jos came over to hang out. I had forgotten to mention the wolf, so it was a bit of a surprise for him to see the big shaggy animal in the corner.What! he yelled, lurching backward and then darting into the other room. Why is there a wolf in your house! he shouted from around the corner. Oh, sorry, I laughed,I should have told you I had an educational. Nice reaction, by the way. Jos stuck his head around the doorway and glared at me.You trying to play a The Fall Line trick on me? Hey, I grew up in the mountains, where this crap happens for real! Although, he conceded, coming back into the room to look warily at the wolf,you dont usually find them sleeping, and they usually come in the garage, not the house. But it still gave me a heart attack. Really, Im sorry, I said, sitting back on the couch.Ive had it here so long I didnt think to mention it. Jos had edged closer and crouched down to gingerly stroke the wolfs long fur. How can you not think about such a beautiful animal? Look at this gorgeous coat. Its so thick! Has to be, to keep them warm when it gets down below zero. He seemed mesmerized by the wolf, running his hands over its slender legs and knobby ankles, feeling the points of its dark nails.So, have you woken it up or whatever? Yeah, once, I said.It was really cool to see it awake and moving around, but it started growling, on its own; I dont think its supposed to be able to do that.And I didnt want to find out that it could move around and maul people on its own, too. Jesus, no wonder it growled, its probably sick of rotting away in peoples houses so it can walk around for their amusement. Or just lay there and be forgotten til it dies, he added bitterly, still absorbed in stroking the wolfs thick fur. He looked up, realizing I was that person he was criticizing.Sorry. But this is awful, man.This animal was meant to be free, hunting and living with a pack, not growing mold in someones apartment like some stupid knick-knack. The familiar guilt was building up in my chest; he was right.While I was being lazy and indecisive about what to do with the wolf, its life was slipping by, unused and unlived.Well, what do you want me to do with it? I groused at him.Just put it out in the 21 woods? What if its not used to the cold anymore and dies of pneumonia? What if some other wolves kill it because its an outsider? Jos looked at me scornfully.Its not gonna die of pneumonia. Did I mention this super thick coat? And anyway, either of those options is better than this crappy nonlife.This animal is not where it was meant to be. Its not living the life its supposed to live. I stared at the ground for a minute, weighing guilt and fear. Suddenly I just wanted to do the right thing for once in my life, instead of being too afraid. Like always. Alright.Youre right.This isnt where its supposed to be. It might as well be dead as be stuck on stand-by indoors forever. It should have the chance to live its real life. Im gonna set it free tonight. Jos smiled.Thank you. I spent the rest of the afternoon looking at Google Maps, trying to decide on a good place to release it. I wanted to get as far away from any towns as I could, but I still had to be able to drive there in my Honda Civic.This wasnt going to be some epic trek on foot through the snowy wilderness; I just wanted to drive into the mountains, let the poor thing go, and come back home. I finally chose my spot, southwest of Leadville, off Route 82. I packed a sandwich and a bottle of water for the drive, piled on two sweaters and a coat, and was about to lug the wolf out to the car when the familiar sound of shouting and arguing came through the wall. Right, my other next-door neighbors. I was so sick of hearing them, and I couldnt believe people wasted this much of their lives being so unhappy.Why didnt they just separate? At least I was about to head out, so I wouldnt have to hear them. I found the remote in the back of the closet, moving to put The Fall Line it in my coat pocket, when the bass started pounding through the other wall like the throb of a headache. My hand clenched around the remote, and I closed my eyes.When I opened them, I looked at the remote in my hand. Calmly, I pressed activate, and as the wolf lunged up onto all fours, I hit howl. Deafening in the small space, a high, eerie call flooded through the apartment, sounding like loneliness and vast, unbridgeable voids.As the call lowered and wound down, I pressed the button again, and again. I hit snarl, and bark, and yelp, the wolf making a crazy and vibrant racket; it felt like a dam had broken, pouring out the sound of the wolfs soul. I pressed howl one last time, savoring the wild, chilling notes, and as they died away there was a beautiful silence. Finally I pressed stand-by, knelt to pick up the wolfs limp body, and left. The sun was already admitting defeat and slipping under the horizon as I drove up into the foothills of the Rockies. I was headed west on 70, against a flood of headlights going back into Denver.After about an hour and a half, I turned south, and traffic dwindled to almost non-existent; only the occasional car broke the dark monotony of the road. Passed through Leadville and turned west.The moon rose; it was three-quarters full, washing trees and road in cold light, leaving black shadows in between.When I was in the general area I had picked out on the map, I slowed and turned onto a gravelled pull-off spot. Getting out of the car, I inhaled the cold, clean air; it smelled like nobody had ever breathed it before me. It was delicious, but my face and hands were already freezing.Walked around and opened the back passenger door, looked at the wolfs fierce beauty one last time. Stroked the thick fur between its ears. I walked back down the road a little way, picking up a fist-sized rock from the frozen ground. Laid the remote on a big stone. Raised my rock up high, brought it down on the remote as hard as I could. 23 Plastic cracked and shattered, flying through the air. I smashed the rock down two, three, four times, buttons and shards of plastic showering the frozen ground. Looked up when the wolf surged out of the car, powerful hind legs propelling it forward in an awesome leap. It hit the ground and kept on going, running for all it was worth, for its freedom, for its life. In five long strides it disappeared into the trees, though I could hear it for a few seconds longer before that faded too. Then I was alone in the winter night. I took a deep, deep breath, savoring the biting freshness of the air. Getting back in the car, I fumbled out my cell phone and dialled a number.Hey, Robin, sorry to call so late, but could I come stay with you for a while? I want to move down there and need a few weeks to get my feet under me. This Colorado winter and the city are too much; Im done. I cant wait to get to Florida. ...Youre sure its okay? Thanks, its a huge thing youre doing for me. Ill see you in a few days. ...Yeah, Im just gonna pack a few things tonight and get on the road.Theres nothing really holding me here, and I need a change. ...I know Ive been saying that for a while, I guess I finally just got kickstarted to do it. ...Okay, see you soon. Love you. I hung up and looked at the dark woods one more time.As my numb fingers struggled to put the keys in the ignition, a long, clear howl carried through the thin air. I smiled, started the engine, and pulled out onto the road. I didnt look back; I was too busy looking ahead. The Fall Line FINAL 04 Madigan 25 Hometown Catherine Morris - Poetry All of me are pieces Of a teeny, tiny town Too afraid of changing Of letting others down My heart stands in the middle A living, breathing Town Square My mind stands beside it Presiding as acting Mayor An antique shop stands on the corner Filled with boxes of dusty dreams A music store and a Baby Grand With brilliant keys that gleam A book store, where my imagination Can run wild between the rows A coffee shop, on rainy days Where my soul takes the time to grow The Fall Line My veins are little side streets My lungs, the General Store While folks stand at my Arms gates Waiting for a tour My Town has grown in population Ive let each new shop set up keep With its own little Shopkeeper And the broom he uses to sweep But just now its afraid of changing Resists it with all its might It doesnt want this disappearing To have it drift away from sight My sensible brain stands guard And whispers what it will It says that life is always rushing by With no way to make time stand still 27 A Story I Told Us Once Matthew Paysour - Fiction We could die happily. As happily as dying could be, at least. We could die happily, considering. We could have our gravestones side-by-side, one-next-to-the-other, and mine could say HERE LIES [ME], HAPPILY FOR ETERNITY and yours could say HERE LIES [YOU], FOR ETERNITY (how long is eternity, must I spend it all beside him) and we could know that it is not particularly funny anyway, but our families and our friends would laugh because it is so undeniably us, and our families and our friends could visit our lifeless bodies and smile through their tears that fall one-two-three down their cheeks because of our deadness.They could know that we never wanted more than pleasant company and they could just pick the nearby graveyard dandelions so that our new granite headstones could effloresce with life among abundant death, and they could The Fall Line love the dandelions for being abundantly nearby because they know if they spend any of their hard-earned dollars on pretty plants just for our sake, so help us God, if we were alive, we would fight them.We could look at each other underneath the Earth and be glad that others see that we have life when we should be lifeless and that our friends look at our bodies replaced by inorganic speckled grey stone and still they do not cry, but their faces twist themselves in distorted bowline knots but still there is a smile, like mothers do at weddings or graduations or important birthdays.We could like to think that were good at inventing and thinking and creating even when were dead too, even though honestly we werent that good at inventing and thinking and creating when we were alive. We could be alive happily too, though, we could be old together, with giant plastic glasses frames like the ones we could have had when we were younger, except for now we could actually need them for seeing and they could make our mostly greenish-brownish eyes HUGE in a way that could still make us laugh when we wake up beside each other and place them on our faces and turn to say, good morning to you again.We could eat our plain steel-cut oatmeal and fiber supplements, and then we could pop our plentiful pills for diseases of the elderly, and we could look at the container S M T W T F S and then we could look at each other and say, please pass the smtwtfs (with mouthfuls of oatmeal, for added obscuring of any possible vowel sounds), as if it were ordinary or possible to speak a word with no vowels, as if the containers name and identity were reduced only to its labels imprinted on the surface. We could stop being an accountant and an administrative assistant when were old (because our children are middle-aged now like we were once, and because money is only paper with faces of dead men on it anyway) and we could start being our hobbies. 29 We could sit outside on our modest-sized oaken deck and listen all day to the birds tweedle-oo and wee-hah-woo, and this could inspire me to make stories again and this could inspire you to build peculiarly-shaped birdhouses and paint again, paint them with your own thoughts. My stories might not hold together well because I never could quite get a handle on that je ne sais quois that makes characters and fiction and sentences interesting (or at least thats what they told me in my twenties), and your birdhouses might not hold together well because neatness and measuring and calculation (not to mention super-glue) were never really things that you believed in. But we could be okay with it. We could abandon the lifeless, instead having vivacity and verve.We could finally have time to travel, fly on planes or in helicopters or on hang-gliders (well, you could finally have time for flying on hang-gliders, you know Im afraid of heights, and hang-gliders) and we could take a giant cruise boat to New Zealand, and we could play shuffleboard for hours on it and be friendly and loving with our fellow cruisers so that former strangers at departure time say goodbye Grandmom and Grandpop to us when it is time to dock, even though we are not really their grandmom and grandpop. Our children and our grandchildren could laugh at us for being such a stereotype of old people, and we could say with shrugged shoulders that stereotypes exist because everyone does these things, and everyone does these things because theyre fun, and thats the point of everything, isnt it? We could forget that thats the point of everything, at some point.We could forget to have fun in middle age, because most people do.You could go to stay with your mother for a week or two or three to figure things out, and I could watch you drive away in our two-door Mazda, and I could be all alone.There could be our white picket The Fall Line fence in between your car and me, and you could accelerate down the street, appearing and disappearing and appearing and disappearing between the posts. I could wonder if I need to go after you, or if I need to wait, if you need the space. I could decide correctly. Eventually. I could wonder if the white picket fence was the problem. It probably wouldnt be. I could tell you that were not like them, that our togetherness wont fall apart like both of our parents togetherness did. Because were different, because were so undeniably us.You could say, what if were not? You could say what happened to ? what happened to evenings not watching late night television in inattentive silence? what happened to reading books about adventures aloud to each other, when you would try to voice-act the characters as the author intended and I would try to give them all geographically inappropriate accents until we had stitches in our stomachs and forgot what the story was ever about? You could say, what happened? Please? I could say I dont know. I could say maybe its because our children are grown, and because we dont like our jobs (we call them jobs because its too sad to call them careers, though they are careers), and we are no longer so full of life and purpose, our shoes are treading, in essence, on a Nebraska interstate highway where it looks like every step is taking you neither forward nor backward nor in any particular direction.You could say that that makes sense maybe if you think hard enough, but that my metaphor is struggling to work simply and sensibly. But before that, of course, we could buy an off-white house with a green door and with a white picket fence, after our two-bedroom apartment in Chicago started shrinking when our family started growing, after our second child that we named Lucy started existing.We could be happyor we could be distracted, depending on when you 31 ask usand we could still have a picket fence then.We could become an accountant and an administrative assistant because Jack had been existing for 10 years already, and his stomach would soon be requiring more things to put inside of it, as growing boys often require, and providing as such would require money that we did not have.We could make money.We could complain about fluorescent offices, white paper and black pens, ordinary paper clip-shaped paper clips, and how breathtakingly annoyingly hilariously stupid people are.We could still remember to have fun.We could ask how Jack is doing at soccer practice and we could hear Jacks soccer coach tell us that Jack is, uh, the best on the whole entire peewee team at discovering white-painted beetles in the fields center circle in the midst of a match, and we could hear Lucy say her first word smile, which could make us smile because even though many many other parents have had their child learn to speak and be generally normal, we could be proud that we somehow havent screwed that up yet for Lucy, or for Jack. We could also feel that uncomplicated joy of normalcy when Lucy is first born, or when Jack is first born.We could be surprised, because procreation is perhaps the easiest, and most frequent, (and most fun) of all potential human accomplishment, but still it could make us so proud when each of them leaves your body for the hospital bed, the nurses hands, then our hands, later to become better, larger, brillianter versions of us. I could make a face that first time (because blood always made me weak in the knees), a face that could somehow make you laugh as you push a pumpkin-sized and Jack-shaped bundle of living and breathing humanity out of you in a gross sort of way. We could have life before those moments, though, even if we forget it entirely later down the road, even if we forget the purposes we once had, our Welcome to _____________________ road signs, our reasons for early twenties anxiousness of The Fall Line tomorrow and the day after and the year after.We could be full as much of life as we are of lifeless, because with each personal success, each personal creation, comes personal failure. I could write stories for The New Yorker or for no-name-someplace-biannual-literary-reviews or for anything, really anything, and I could receive letter after letter in the mail, each starting with a thank you for your submission, but, a we regret to inform you that, or the like, and maybe I could frame them just so that I could know that someone is reading my words.You could show off your paintings to white walls, to heavy air, to me at empty art shows, and you could hang your paintings on our bare brick Chicago apartment walls so that at least our friends will have to look at them, and tell you that the watercolors are inspiring, when really their hesitating tongues tell us that they mean that they dont exactly get all of the swirlyness, but that theyre inspired that you try.That we try.And we could be happy, because maybe that was our purpose then, to create for ourselves, and we could also know that life, if there is any at all, comes from different sources through the course of a single life, even if we do not know that right then. ****** Well, I would know that. Because I have learned it now.You may not know that yet. I do not know. You are sitting in a garden when I am, for now, nothing but a passerby.You are by the chrysanthemums, daisies, lilies. Of all the pretty plants around you, you have decided instead to twiddle a dandelion between your index and middle finger. I do not know you, but I could know you. I would like to know you. There is a moment, often, when a barrier is shattered, taking only one word or 33 sentence or thought to cross the threshold from complete strangerdom to familiarity. It does not matter what is said because at that moment, your thoughts have escaped, and your mind has been heard by another mind, connected as a glowing diameter between two beings, a diameter with potential to fade into nothing again and be forgotten with frightening immediacy, but also with potential to glow ever brighter until the connection is so strong that it radiates a more frightening but more terrific energy.The mere possibility of it leaves one lustfully fantasizing the ordinary as extraordinary, surrendering to the delicious inevitability of ordinariness, so long as it can be shared with the other half of this lifeful energy.That could be you. I will shatter a barrier. Dandelions are pretty flowers, considering. Considering what? Considering that theyre weeds. The Fall Line Lucky Karyn Williams - Poetry Its a random road trip, because we can Finding a way to the promise land Singing songs at the tops of our lungs And one decision to have you tag along A destination and a complete surprise To eventually being able to call you mine Boardwalk laughter, beach playground fun Sand star sketches, and a cold one Finding Neptune, sea shell delights Youre the meaning of falling in love in a night A weekend home, a hibachi disaster A Ruby Tuesday save, and a waitresses laughter Baking cupcakes, and competition icing Both of them turning out so nicely Youre the high when Im feeling low A sweet symphony of the voice I know A stolen kiss and a Lucky brand God showed me a beautiful man 35 Chopped Ellie-Anne Daniel - Creative Non-Fiction Ill never forget the elated look on the stylists face when I assured her that, yes, I wanted all of my long hair cut off.When I walked in, I had not made an appointment, so she had no clue she was going to get to perform such a transforming haircut that day, she took before and after pictures and was more than excited to tell about donating my hair to locks for love.After I sat down in the chair, she put my hair into a ponytail and immediately chopped it off so I wouldnt have time to get nervous and retract my request. My first reaction was the weirdest combination of elation and regret I can remember ever having and before I knew it, she continued the haircut and it kept getting better and better until all of my regret was gone and replaced with a hint of fear. Once the cutting was complete, the stylist excitedly asked if she could style my new haircut free of charge because she loved it so much and wanted to demonstrate the new potential that it held. By the time I left the parlor, I had short, slightly curled up, wavy hair, and the ponytail that I once called mine had been signed away to charity. My new beginning had begun. Later that day, I was scheduled on my volunteer team at church to be the producers assistant, so I didnt have time to debut my haircut to my family or anyone, I was headed straight to Fredericksburg.When everyone on the volunteer team either loved The Fall Line and complimented my haircut or didnt even mention that anything was different, I knew I had chosen the right church for life. During the service, my family attended and saw me on stage, knowing thats the position I should be in but wondering where I couldve been because that surely was not their Ellie. I sought them out after the service and our family friends and my siblings loved it but my parents were more hesitant with remarks such as, Wow, that sure is short! and,What a bold choice, Ellie! I knew they were not going to be my biggest fans. I continued to try to show them how happy this haircut made me, I was still the same Ellie theyve always known, I had simply become a more clear version of myself, but to no avail. After church, we all went out to dinner with our friends and my parents kept glancing over at me a bit worriedly, waiting for me to see what a terrible decision I had made, why would I pay someone to take all of my gorgeous hair away? They couldnt see from my point of view.As the waiter was splitting up the checks, my parents motioned toward my friend who also has short hair and I only to hear the waiter say,The boys are with you? I was sure my dad was reaching his breaking point, but he simply responded,No, those are my girls, but yes, they are with us, I was proud of him. Once we had been home for a while, my mom informed me that they knew they had no control over how I cut my hair or how I dress, but if I wanted to have my hair short and wear mens clothes, they were not going to support it financially.At the time, I had a heavy course load with school, so I could not easily afford to cover these expenses via a job or anything, I was living off of my Christmas money and whatever I could save from my gas allowance. Over the next few days, weeks, and months, both of my parents begged me to at least grow my hair to shoulder length, a bob would be cute, and theyd happily pay to keep it cut at that length.The only upside I could think of was that it seemed that this cause had taken over the hopes that they had for putting me 37 back in girls clothing. One night when I got home from school, my mom sat me down to tell me that my dad came to her in tears because he had searched the derm dyke haircut on google images. She asked if I had ever looked at the results for this search, and truthfully I had not, I never thought to search that and at the time I saw dyke as a very hurtful word.After showing me the image results, I agreed with her that my haircut did indeed fall into that category, but had she ever thought to use different search terms? The answer was as I thought, of course she hadnt, both of my parents are very set in their ways and refuse to look at anything from a viewpoint that opposes their own most of the time. I requested that she search pixie cut instead, but she and my father said that wasnt the point that they were trying to make, they just wanted me to see that I fall under these terrible search terms and therefore I need to change. My sister, once the enemy phase ended when she left for college, has always been my best friend and my biggest supporter in everything that I dream of and hope to accomplish. If my sister had been at home and easily accessible to mediate my parents and I, this entire situation wouldve been infinitely simpler. Instead, she was at college, then she moved to Thailand for a year, so our best communications with her were through text and an occasional voice message. I sent her pictures of my new haircut and she loved it and tried to convince my parents to at least not hate it. Being the oldest of three children and my fathers first daughter, she has always had a special ability to tug at his heart, so after a couple months of tugging, my father finally began to accept my short hair. However, this was only the very beginning of an everlasting process that I did not know I had entered. After I thought my father had accepted my short hair and exhausted all re- The Fall Line sources that may back up his position on the topic, I came home to find a print out of the Army hair regulations hanging on the fridge.There were two pictures displayed: one was a girl with shoulder length hair, and the other was a girl with long hair tied up in a bun. I was sure that his next step was to kick me out of Junior ROTC, as he was not only my father, but also my Senior Army Instructor. My immediate response was to look up the regulations myself only to find that he had excluded the first picture: a girl with short hair like my own, the only thing I couldnt go shorter than was a number two with clippers, I was in the clear.When I brought this up with my father, he said that our battalion went by an older standard than the one I had found which was dated from 2010, so Id still have to grow out my hair if I wanted to stay in the program and keep my leadership positions.This news nearly broke me, I thought he had won, he always has to win, and he has always been in charge of everything that I do. A few weeks later, the girl who had been chosen as battalion commander came to school with the exact same haircut that I had and my father froze. His partnering instructor had no problem with our short haircuts as they were in accordance with Army regulation, so my father had lost his ground to have me grow my hair back out. Once I turned eighteen, my parents knew that there was truly no leveredge they had over me that they would actually put into use.They love me more than to not do what they can in helping me pay for college, or allowing me to use a car to get to school and work.While my father did threaten to take my car away because he knew I wasnt telling him about my sexuality, none of that was ever actually put into motion, and not too long after that, I was done hiding who I was from my parents anyways.We made a silent arrangement to just not mention the topic and I didnt have a girlfriend at 39 the time, so I didnt have to risk mentioning anyone in front of my parents, and they just avoided asking. This process taught me a ton about myself and my parents and how different we are from each other. I see the nature vs. nurture argument from an entirely different aspect now and there is no clear answer, its just full of blurred lines.A huge part of who I am is due to the family that I was born into and how they raised me, but another part is my intuition and simply how I was born.At no point in time did I choose to prefer mens clothing, Ive just always been that way, and the same goes for my sexuality, I never wanted to be gay, when I first thought that maybe I was I hated the thought. For years I rejected the thought and tried my best to do everything I could to be straight and have a boyfriend and fit in with my family and how I was raised, being gay is a sin and a choice that is wrong. Since then Ive learned to own who I am and own insults that others find to use against me. Earlier I mentioned that I saw the word dyke as hurtful at that time because I had not yet realised how I could own these insults. Now I see dyke merely as descriptive and even complimentary while keeping in mind that others could still be at the stage where its hurtful, so I still dont use it, but I also dont mind it. Everything in life is a learning process and very few things are set in stone. The Fall Line RUSTOLEUM DREAMS John Pettitt 41 Friendlys Gina Edwards - Fiction After church, Easter Sunday. I am with my young daughters, ages four and seven. We are in our Sunday best. Me in a yellow dress, the girls in pink and white with shiny shoes. I like the church, but I am a new single mom. Separated from my husband, two wonderful innocent girls to protect.Who would protect me now? I am trying so hard, but it is so hard. Stopping at Friendlys Restaurant after church service.A once-monthly treat, saved for. My girls look so cute, so eager for the treat. I think we must glow in enjoyment of the spring day and the anticipation of this treat. Were walking across the parking lot, when a man approaches. Unkempt, but clean. Smiling, yet hesitant.About my age.Excuse me, miss, he says. We all three turn, smiling.Who is this gentleman? The girls, in their infinite, child-like wisdom, move slightly behind me. Flanking, but letting me lead. Protective and vulnerable at the same time. I notice how the breeze ruffles their skirts and their hair, and how the sun sparkles off their white patent leather shoes. The Fall Line Hi! I say,Can I help you? Could you spare $5? You look like a nice lady. Im really hungry. I know, I know the bar down the street, a bar around the corner. But its such a lovely day. Spring blue sky, warm yellow sun, pussy willows. Surely he didnt come from one of the bars. I dont have anything that small, I replied.But youre welcome to join us. Its our treat Sunday.Well treat you, too. Im walking toward the door, expecting that he will follow. He does. Are you sure? said with hope and trepidation in his voice. Yes. I wouldnt offer if I wasnt sure. I shouldnt, really. The door opens and we walk in.I didnt go to church or anything today. Im not Dont be silly.You seem nice, its a gorgeous day, youre hungry and we just invited you to lunch. The girls are smiling, giggling. So sweet, so darling.They know how I am. In the door, the four of the us. I tell the waitress that we want a table for four. She knows me, sort of. Knows my story, remembers our other fourth. She smiles at the girls then at me.Then she looks up at the man.Then at me. Shes cautious. She knows him too, it seems. Her look wonders whether I know what type of man he is. I know, but Im hopeful shes wrong, and hes wrong too. The waitress grabs menus and we all follow. My girls first, almost dancing to the 43 booth; the stranger and I behind.We turn the corner into the dining area. Into the wall of Sunday Best church-goers, all gathered at Friendlys It seems, it seems, it seems as if every head turns eyes on us. Smiling, smiling, at girl, girl. Smiling, at woman.Then, still smiling but fading, at the man. He stutters to a stop, hope fading, shuffles and begins to turn.Im not dressed right, says he. But its only Friendlys, I reply, reaching out. No.You stay with your pretty girls, and have your Sunday treat.Thank you thanks And he turns and walks out of the door into the bright Easter Sunday morning. I turn back to the dining room. Ashamed for me and for all of them. The Fall Line HIGH CONTRAST PROFILE Catelyn Kelsey 45 Bygone Love Annette Cashatt - Poetry Running under city lights Through buildings that tower then fold like Made in China, Dollar Store cups Their ashes will forever be buried in the mud and sand 50, 100, 200 years But you draw your legacy in the sky 100,000 million billion years The Star heaved, cried, finally sighed so many eons ago Bequeathed you the dust straight from her heart Your imprint in our cosmos will always last Every tale of old dragons, sprites, floating cities, cracked chests of gold Deer scrambling through the weeds Fire in the water (Big boys dont cry) Even the mother star dims beside you For a mind so brilliant The Fall Line And your heart: a goblet of chipped ice, drenched in honey But burning deep in the core So sensitive and warm It melts and puddles so easily when Another human caresses it For love is never visionless It sees more, not less For love is never lost It wanders like a clumsy kitten, until it romps back For love is never forgotten It sometimes is displaced by a dark, sticky, and suspicious substance (Quickly burn whatever slime that is) For the kindest thing it says is Please stay, sweetie Yet the most generous thing it says is Keep flying still in the cosmos Or so it once was 47 Three Layers Cameron Stewart - Fiction She watched through Jacksons eyes as a man melted before her. She felt the cloth on his shoulder through Jacksons hand, which was extended in a gesture of comfort. She listened to the soft sobs through Jacksons ears, and felt a rising pity through the combined focus of Jacksons senses. But Cath was not Jackson. She was at this point a neutral observer. She didnt even know the crying mans name, or how he was related to Jackson. She didnt know anything about Jackson aside from his name. It was now her name, in his guise. I dont know whats gotten over me, Jackson, the man said, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands.Im sorry. I think Im falling apart. Its okay. Im here. Though they were Caths words, they came in Jacksons voice. She hadnt actually heard Jackson speak yet, as she hadnt been given a chance to do so. I must sound so stupid. But I swear, this job is getting to me. Its going to tear me apart. I swear, Im losing it! All of this overtime.And the things they make me do What choice do I have? Itll be all right, Cath said, though now she was using Jacksons eyes to scan The Fall Line the room. She had her own job to do, after all. She ignored the blubbering mess in Jacksons grasp, and took in the setting.They were in a small living room, decorated by a couch, a table, and a wall-mounted television.There wasnt a single tool that she could use. There should be a kitchen to your right, said Mike, her observer, nothing but a voice in her head. I feel like a slave. I cant get out of this. The intensity was overwhelming. Cath drew Jacksons eyes off the doorway and back to the man. He had fallen into a new fit of tears, but his words echoed in Caths mind.All she knew about this man had come from a few minutes of his complaints. But she had never heard a statement that had struck so true. It was painful, knowing what she would have to do next. The kitchen, Cath. She couldnt ignore Mike for long.The mans tears were subsiding, and he reached out to give Jackson a hug. Cath couldnt bring herself to resist. Itll be okay.This will all go away, she said through Jackson. Cath patted the man on the back with Jacksons hand. She could feel Mikes eyes on her, and she knew that she had to act soon. Cath released the man, who leaned back on the couch sniffling. Im going to get you something to drink.You stay here and relax. 49 Cath rose, and walked around the couch to the kitchen doorway. She went directly to the cabinet top by the stove, where she found a knife block. Cath drew out a large butcher knife, and paused as she spotted Jacksons reflection in the blade. It was rare for her to ever see the pin bodys face. She stared at Jackson, his scrunched features reflecting her troubled expression as she controlled his body.Yet another slave, though he didnt know it. He would soon find himself standing over his friends dead body. Lets get moving Cath.Weve got quite a list today. There was a twinge of annoyance to Mikes tone. Cath shook with anticipation. She crossed back to the living room and stopped in the doorway.The man was still on the couch, facing away from her and still far too emotional to be fully aware of his surroundings. Cath came up behind him slowly, Jacksons feet moving silently across the carpeted floor. She raised the knife. Heres an escape, she thought.At least for you. Cath opened her eyes in the dim light of the machineher coffin, perfectly fitted to her body save for a slight air pocket in front of her torso.Though she quickly returned to her bodys normal senses, there was a phantom sensation of the blood that covered Jacksons hands. Her thoughts lingered on Jackson as the machine cooled down, its functions turning off. Now Jackson would be discovering that he was a murderer. He wouldnt remember doing the deed, but the police would come and pin it on him. Jackson had indeed physically caused the murder, though it had been through Caths will. Good job, Mike said, his boredom sounding through his transmission.Go ahead and take a short break. Ill load up the next target. The Fall Line The coffin split open, and its two doors rolled back. Cath stepped into the steel-paneled room, which was empty beyond the machine. Dim and cavernous, the room was only lit by a handful of lights lining the base of the walls. More light trickled in from the main room, and Cath followed it as if in a daze. For a moment, her head was filled with a tapping sound. Mike, your headset is still on. The sound vanished. Cath paused in the center of the main room.A simple bed lay behind her against the back wall, and beside that was a small bookcase.There was even a couch and TV, with a handful of select films sitting on the stand beneath it.This was her cell. Cath had long become disinterested in those material distractions. She went to the opposite end of the room, where the wall was taken up by a thick steel door and a tiny reinforced window. Caths eyes went automatically to the window, and traced the familiar sight of the trees outside, sloping along the gradual hill in front of the complex, forming a forefront to a lush scene of distant mountains. It was visual hope. Caths mind drifted back to her last kill. Often, she had found herself lamenting the fates of the pins, but now she didnt think about Jackson. She thought of the target, his crying, the raw emotion that she was not allowed to show. Emotion was weakness; the man had proven that old adage by his complete lack of self-defense. But Cath still felt emotions. No matter what Mike tried.And that last target had tapped something powerful. She was a slave. 51 There was no way out. Well, actually, she did one way to escape. A few birds moved out in the trees, nothing but tiny blurred shapes from Caths vantage point.Widespread woodlands.Wildlife. Even the flight. It all played into the illusion of freedom. But Cath knew that it was truly hopeless and empty. All right, Ive got the next target loaded. She killed her husband apparently. His brothers paying for this.The wifes at her mothers house so weve got an easy pin set up. There was an unsaid part of Mikes transmission of course, but Cath didnt budge. She didnt want to get back into the machine. She continued to stare at the false symbols of freedom, but her eyes were glazed. Cath was a slave.There would be one way to escape. Lets go ahead and get ready for launch. There was no other way out. Cath, we need to hurry up. She had freed the crying man. Cath, move it! There would be one way to escape. Cath blinked and raised her hands in reflex as a metal panel slid down over the window. She turned and stared directly at a camera mounted to the ceiling. She willed The Fall Line her anger to burn through and into Mike. If you dont move your ass right now, you know what Im going to do. Cath looked away from the camera, and closed her eyes tightly. She heard Mikes swearing ring through her head, and then a loud click came from the room. Immediately, Cath could tell that the lights had gone out.Without thinking, she began to shake. She couldnt help it. Her heart was pounding faster than when she had been contemplating suicide. Cath opened her eyes, but couldnt see a thing. Dread filled her, shooting down to her bones. It felt like the needles, the shocks, the cutting of the surgeons knives.The dark always brought her back to her days of programming. Cath shrank down, shivering violently. And then the actual pain came, from the system wired to her insides. A jolt rose up from her spine, mildly hot at first. It was merely uncomfortable. But then it intensified, and Cath seized up in agony.A whimper escaped her lips, even as she tried her hardest to remain silent.Tears strewed from the corners of her eyes. You know I dont like this either. Just do your job Cath! She couldnt take it anymore. Cath let out a cry, and collapsed onto her side. Stop! she finally screamed. The pain vanished.The lights came back on. Cath was left breathing heavily on the floor, with fresh tears pouring sideways along her face.These tears had nothing to do with the pain. She had been so very afraid. 53 She would never be able to end her own life. Six hours later, Mike took off his headset and set it gently on the computer desk. He made sure it was switched off, and then let out a long sigh. He stared at his dual monitors with a mixture of disgust and aggravation. His eyes lingered on the camera screen that showed Cath lying on her bed, placed into an automated sleep. Nobody and I mean nobody could be more hardheaded, Mike said, fueled by his aggravation.The disgust was quieter, more painful, and reserved for himself. Tough day? Julia said, as she set her bag down on the desk. The worst, Mike said.Maybe you could switch to day shift some time and see what its like. Oh ho, no thanks. Ive seen enough at inspections. Mike snorted.Thats when shes on her best behavior. He stood up and stretched, and then stepped out of the way to give Julia room to sit. He grabbed the empty drink cans and littered food wrappings from the desk. His self-hatred was rising, but his anger was stronger. Do you have any plans tonight? Julia said, rearranging the various windows on the computer screens to her liking. Mike scowled at her alterations to his setup, and then he registered her question and snorted again.Yeah, right. If I did go somewhere, Id probably end up breaking company protocol. Julia laughed, but it was very short and it seemed forced. Mike gave a very insin- The Fall Line cere smile, but couldnt bring himself to keep it.What he had said was very close to the truth. He stood there for a moment, to what amounted to an awkward silence. Mike was still dwelling on that uncomfortable truth when Julia said,Well, have a good night anyway. Yeah, he said. Mike snapped back to the present.Yeah.You too. Ill see you in the morning. Mike gathered up his things and went out into the driveway. He looked back at the tech base, which looked like a small house from the outside. He was fuming, and pointlessly gripped his hands tightly closed as fists. Realizing this made him angrier.Anger made the self-hatred even stronger. He thought back to a particular target from earlier in the day, some guy who had said,I feel like a slave. I cant get out of this. That sentence had stuck with him the whole day, haunted him, but it wasnt until now that he realized why. Mike was a slave. Once he had taken this job no, probably once they had offered him this job Mike had become expendable. If he did anything to disrupt the company, anything that would put it at stake, he would be a dead man.That included quitting.And his higher-ups had made that abundantly clear. There is no way out, he said to the empty driveway.And theres absolutely nothing to do about it. 55 Calm Elizabeth Angeley - Poetry Calm is the gentle breeze hitting the ocean Making the wave move gracefully along the sand Pricking it until it settles down into a smooth surface Waiting for the storm to come To repeat what it has always done The Fall Line FINAL PROJECT Julia Grammer 57 A Grocery Store Visit Abbigail Traaseth - Fiction Mom keeps grabbing oranges. She picks one up, looks at it closely, squeezes it gently, holds it to her nose, and then puts it back. She does it again. I dont know what shes looking for, but it must be important. Shes probably looking for the best one. I want to help, I want to look and squeeze and smell. I want to help her find the best. I like oranges. I like how they look when theyre round and full, and then how theyre different when mom opens them up and I see inside. Soft, juicy little crescents.Thats the shape of the moon when it isnt full but it isnt half either, a crescent. Its the inside of the orange that tastes good. I tried the outside once, but that was something else. Not sweet. Mom told me not to eat it, and I guess thats because its no good. My favorite part is how the name is the color. Grapes arent purples, and strawberries arent reds. Carrots arent oranges either, but thats probably because oranges was already taken. I learned the color before I learned the fruit, and I was confused about how two things could share a name, but then I was okay. Its like how there are two Paiges in my class. Theyre not the same Paige, but they share. I like the grocery store.Thats where we are now.There are so many colors and shapes and smells. I like the fruits and vegetables part the best, all piled up on tables The Fall Line around us. I dont like the taste of the green ones on the wall, but I like it when it rains on them. Its like theyre trying to trick the vegetables and make them think that theyre still outside, but theyre actually waiting to be bought and eaten. I dont know why anyone likes to eat those. I like the people in grocery stores, too. I like the ones who are looking at oranges, like my mom. I like the ones who make the oranges appear, who ask us if were okay and if we need any help.They always smile at me. Mom always says no to the help, but I want to know how they always have more oranges. Ive seen them make the piles tall again after people have taken them, so I know they have more hiding somewhere. I wonder how many oranges are in the store. I want to help mom. I reach out to grab the orange thats closest to me, but Im sitting in the cart, which makes things hard to reach. I have to stretch a bit, but I dont mind. I almost get to the best orange when mom takes my wrist and puts it back by my side. She says,dont touch. She doesnt look at me. 59 My Fathers Hands Gina Edwards - Poetry I remember my fathers hands, so impossibly enormous as my three-year-old self sobbed in pain and fear at the splinter in my hand. Sobs rising to screams of terror (nonononononono!) at the idea of those huge hands removing said beam. Those hands being thrown up (frustration? resignation? surrender?) as his voice asks my mother to perform the surgery. I remember my fathers hands gently cradling and comforting me after the offending speck was removed and sweetly, tenderly, wiping my tear streaked face. How could I have feared those hands? I remember my fathers hands as he deftly wielded tools through the years hammer, saw, paint brush always so precise and knowing in their movements. Fingers long, hands strong and sure. Saving broken toys, building his boat, repairing plumbing, electrical, woodwork. I remember my fathers hands as he taught me to paint a room, bait a hook (yuck!) and cast my rod. Helping me reel in my first catch (a huge sunny from the dock!) and later catches, bigger catches too! I remember my fathers hands as he scaled, gutted and filleted the fish wed caught. Silver The Fall Line scales flying, sparkling as they catch sunlight. A slice through the head and the gut, head and entrails in the bucket to be buried in the garden. Messy work, but somehow his hands stayed clean. No wasted motions, no wasted fish. I remember my fathers hands the day we realized my brother was not a boy, but a man. Playful rough-housing escalating into something more primal. My fathers hand swelling from the sprained thumb. I remember my fathers hands teaching me a proper handshake. Not crushing, not limp, but firm and dry. A handshake is a contract.You can tell a lot about a person by his handshake. My fathers handshake was firm and honest. I remember my fathers hands reaching to grab the steering wheel when I was first learning to drive, saving me from straying over the center line. Steady hands, despite the gasp and grunt of surprise that issued from him. I remember my fathers hands, one placed over mine, as we walked down the aisle. Later, gently lifting the veil to kiss me was that a slight tremor? I remember my fathers hands, older now, cradling my new-born daughter. Gentle and strong. I knew that she, like me, would always be safe there. And later, with my second daughter, the preemie. So tiny. His hands so huge beside her, but only those hands brave enough, besides mine, to hold her. I remember my fathers hands, older still.A stronger tremble in them as the sickness sapped his strength. But still determined to DO: to bait the hook, fix the toy, hold the child.The days of scaling and cleaning fish are done now, though. 61 I remember my fathers hands after the surgery, as he lay dying. Holding mine and squeezing rhythmically, almost hypnotically,I love you, because he couldnt speak. I remember my fathers hands, folded carefully with a rosary laced in his fingers. Impossibly large hands. How could they be so still? Unable to wipe away my tears? (nonononononono!) I miss my fathers hands The Fall Line COLLAGE Hadley McLain 63 Chasing the Darkness as Fools Aerial Perkins-Goode - Poetry your body weighed on me like regret secreted under wrinkle sheets casing your futon your hands outlining the curves of my figure as if my soul was nestled between my inner thighs I promise, you will never find a home there you are everything and nothing I ever wanted but here we are chasing the darkness as fools clumsy falling into our own insecurities The Fall Line night became dense I was drowning never did you reach out for me console me told me I was worth more than lock doors and Netflix I hated you for that, still do I saw the heart in you that night bruised, broken empty from past experiences your eyes traced mine looking for the same tragedies there, you will make your home 65 Stupid Christopher Alan Henderson Creative Non-Fiction How stupid are you? Be honest with yourself and think about it.We can only learn and grow as human beings from making mistakes. In life, the really stupid mistakes that you make are memories that permanently scar themselves into your memory bank. Hopefully, it is a learned lesson that can carry itself with you; an invisible friend that never leaves your side and always watches your back. Looking back at my life, I will forever remember an event that was plain and simple; something stupid I did that almost was the death of me. I lived outside of Washington, D.C. in a middle-class suburban neighborhood in Virginia that was indeed a glorious kingdom through the naive eyes of ten year-old boy.A group of trusted friends and myself would tromp and explore across several square miles of wooded backyards, paved side-walk streets, and small islands of forests that for some reason or another survived the imprint of the real estate developers wrath.As far as we knew, there wasnt an area that my gang hadnt violated until we discovered the Mouth of Hell. The Mouth of Hell was just that; an underground passageway that twists and descends into the depths of Satans den.Ancient primal inscriptions, adorned just inside The Fall Line the dark and foreboding tunnel, warned us of a fate that, if dared, will only be rewarded with being forever damned to pain and suffering. Of course, spray painted entrances to large storm water drains can capture the imagination quite well. My friends and I had a new place to hang out. The tunnel of this storm water drain truly looked like a throat. It was perfectly circled, single-toned, and gray in color. It was a concrete tunnel extending so far into the distance that even if one used flashlights to stab into the vanishing point, it always gobbled up the light; engorging itself until the light turned to a midnight of nothingness. On the floor of the tunnel there was a shit-brown algae that always had a running flow of water laying on top of it. It looked like a slick gross tongue that happily travels in marriage down an esophagus; a trickling tongue wide enough that it forced us to split our legs into waddling-like penguins. Slowly, it consumed us down its lengthy throat.With each waddled journey, it fueled our growing courage to see more. That day there were only two of us out, traveling in a course-less expedition. It was another boring and listless summer afternoon in our kingdom.As we rode our bicycles near the entrance to the Mouth of Hell, thick gobs of rain began to spit down on Erik and me.A quick thoughtless decision was made to wait out the beginning summer downpour inside the large storm water drain. Stupid. Erik insisted on taking his ten speed bike into the tunnel because it was a new bike and he didnt want it to get wet. Stupid.We stood inside the tunnel and the thunderous downpour began.We had a moment to get out but we ignored common sense. Stupid.That trickling slick gross tongue began to widen and rise as if someone had turned on the faucet to a bathtub. Water began to spew out and rise very rapidly. Erik, in a blink of an eye, was swept away along with his bike; jettisoned out as if someone had turned on a garden hose full blast. Very, very Stupid.Watching this occur in front of me terrorized me and filled me with 67 instinctual fear. I sat upon a small perch that was a landing for the ladder leading up to the manhole cover. From the very short height of the ladder, I quickly found the cap to the manhole cover was welded shut. It was probably sealed closed for safety reasons from kids entering the Mouth of Hell. No one considered the need for a person to get out. The grey vomitus water was rapidly rising. My mind exploded. Facing death can only be described as converting to a primal state of mind. Every sense ignites into a heightened awareness of needing to survive that cannot be controlled.The water level began to greedily lick at my small perch searching for another morsel to eat. I jumped in. The Mouth of Hell puked me out in the most violent expulsion I have ever felt. I sunk under its wretched bile; somersaulting, tumbling, and spinning in a ballet of chaotic depth. I was frantically clawing and reaching out before me, trying to grasp at anything that may stop this aquatic nightmare.As quickly as I was removed from the tunnel of the storm drain, I was slammed against the large boulders that rested along the creeks banks. I clung to its side, dazed for a moment, as if my whole body was slapped by a huge hand. Both arms and legs screamed back to life. I scampered and clamored over the rocks. Desperately fighting my way out of the gravitational pull of the storm drains flood, I reached the peak of safety. Erik was alive. He had laid on top of his ten-speed bicycle like a raft and rode out natures deadly water slide. He too was slammed up against the rocky bank of the creek bed and climbed out. He escaped with a nasty gash on his knee and a bent bicycle wheel. I lost my eye glasses.As I started to worry about how I was going to explain my lost glasses to my mother, Erik and I picked ourselves up. Battered and bruised, we slowly hobbled homewards. I had met the acquaintance of yet another lifelong invisible friend. So I ask again, how stupid are you? The Fall Line ICE STEAM Nathalie Ando 69 Forest of Ash Skye Scott - Poetry The Fall Line The trees stand tall, their leaves blocking out the rushing wind and roaring rain. Their strong trunks and stout branches protect me from the facade of the world.The dirt is cool under my toes, settles into the ground with my weight.The moss is a soft rug for my feet, wet with the morning dew. I have been here many times. Miles inside this expansive forest. I am hidden here from the destruction of the outside world.The pollution, the smoke.These can not reach me, or so I thought. I failed to see the evil gleam in your beautiful eyes. I did not question your curiosity When I brought you here. Looking back, I see I should have. Perhaps I could have saved The singing birds, The swaying leaves, The sweet breeze. This lovely place. This place that you turned To char and ash. This place that you leapt through Wielding destructive fire. I can no longer escape devastation. It has consumed me. 71  ...

... SPRING 2016 PVCC LITERARY MAGAZINE The Fall Line is a collection of works selected, edited, and produced by Writers Unite, the Piedmont Virginia Community College Creative Writing Club. No material of this publication may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the author. Cover Design by Erin Kennedy Layout by Erin Kennedy Conceived and printed in Charlottesville, VA. A narrow zone that marks the geological boundary between an upland region and a plain, distinguished by the occurrence of falls and rapids where rivers and streams cross it. The Fall Line, Spring 2016, is the eighth volume selected, edited, and produced by Writers Unite, the PVCC Creative Writing Club. CO -PRESIDENTS Annette Cashatt Russell Wright ADVISOR Jenny Koster EDITORS Olivia Cooper Darien Tinsley COVER DESIGN Erin Kennedy L AYOUT Erin Kennedy SPECIAL THANKS Special thanks to the PVCC Copy Center for printing The Fall Line and to Aaron Miller and his Communication Design II class for designing this edition. This year, in addition to our submissions, The Fall Line is publishing the winners of the Writers Unite 3-Minute Horror Story Contest held in Autumn 2015. THE FALL LINE PIEDMONT VIRGINIA COMMUNITY COLLEGE SPRING 2016, VOLUME 8 Letter from the Editors SPRING 2016 EDITION We live in a constantly evolving, jam-packed, and sometimes overwhelming contemporary world. PVCC students in particular may often be able to relate to this as many of us are part-time students, full time workers, and experts at weaving our personal lives through the cracks. Yet chaos is not in harmony with our journey through life. Art, writing, and other creative outlets allow us to speak with our authentic selves. Writing forces us to slow down and distill our thoughts. Writing gives us the opportunity to express ourselves beyond quick chit-chat or above a rush of noise. It gives each member of our college a voice. And that is truly what the Fall Line is aboutgiving the student-body a voice to share their stories with the world. Over the years, we have had the opportunity to see the wildly diverse PVCC population share both their creative endeavors as well as their personal tales of triumph and commitment. It is an honor to facilitate the creation of this magazine, along with Writers Unite advisor Jenny Koster and Aaron Millers Communication Design II class. We hope that among these pages you will find pieces which connect with your own experiences and perhaps some that will inspire you to create your own art. Thanks for reading. ANNETTE AND RUSSELL Contents | LITERARY 3 Once Upon a Dream Annette Cashatt 22 Trapped 39 No More HORROR STORY POEM Kelly Wilmer POETRY 4 What is Love Darien Tinsley POEM 5 Dinner Discovery Patrick Fritz 25 Why Then... Antonia Florence POEM 26 Calling the Game Keith Williams Anne Katherine Brooks GRAPHIC NARRATIVE 14 Box of Evil R. Lewis Wright SHORT STORY 40 The Death Room Sarah Dolan CREATIVE NONFICTION 44 Kourbania Martin Stevens SHORT STORY SHORT STORY CREATIVE FICTION 10 Dont Slack Off Quamia Dennis 33 Thank You Darien Tinsley POEM 34 Aqua Velva Annette-Couch Jareb HORROR STORY 36 Shattering Patterns Annette Cashatt POEM 46 Young Sinners LeeAnna Chittum HORROR STORY 48 Hair Abigail Woodward GRAPHIC NARRATIVE Contents | ARTWORK 2 Untitled Samuel Cliffton 4 A Day in the Life with Gaby Elizabeth Culbertson 9 Portrait Kendall Madigan 16 Landmark Rachel House 20 Nanda Parbat Carter Eggleston 23 Surreal Project Cheryl Anne DeAngelis 24 Butterfly Girl Aja Cenon 28 Herman Erin Kennedy 32 Vector Self Portrait Aja Cenon 35 Tree Silhouettes Tanya Fleming 37 Spaceman Adam Mcloch 38 Untitled Olivia Battani 42 Travel Poster Sue Fanning 43 New Mexico Christi Lynn-Saunders Untitled Samuel Cliffton Once Upon a Dream POEM BY ANNETTE CASHATT Once upon a dream I walked a path of cracked stones and rotting stalks of vegetation But I always found the sky Bursting scarlet embers, streaked with violet, tranquil blues fading in black Once upon a dream The cosmos sang to me A nebulae, filled with millions of stars And trillions of atoms Lit the night as fireflies do in a fog Guiding me on my way Once upon a dream In trying to find the way off the path I passed under a weeping willow And failed to see the cobweb Nobody had warned me and I did not know better So the web clung to me Once upon a dream The sun rose I saw a gathering of dust particles suspended in a beam of sunshine But touching them added one more layer Stratified my being Once upon a dream Time began to devour my soul, as time will When I looked, the sky was gone The path was constricted And signs written by the hands of others told me where to go and how Their commands reverberated through my mind as a drum Once upon a dream The world was smaller My vision narrowed As I stared through a porthole, shrinking in diameter each day Once upon a dream I realized that starving my soul Only fed the teeth of time And the world is vaster than anyone imagines I grew smaller, not the world 3 What Is Love POEM BY DARIEN TINSLEY What is Love? A beautiful feeling amongst people? Love is when a Honey Bee flies to its natural hive. Love is when you smile about something or someone on a bad day for no apparent reason, Love is the tingling feeling you get inside, or just an emotion that is hard to hide, Love is a manipulative choice, which can sometimes act as your voice, It is shown in so many different ways. It keeps you on your toes, and maybe if youre lucky even tingles your nose, It warms your body in a certain place, but always keeps you and your heart feeling safe, If you get the chance to experience love enjoy each and every dance, because you never know when it will be your last chance. A Day in the Life With Gaby Elizabeth Culbertson 4 Dinner Discovery WORDS BY PATRICK FRITZ CREATIVE FICTION It started simply enough. It was my turn to cook dinner. John had cooked the night before and Brandy would cook tomorrow. I knew Belinda had just gone grocery shopping two days before, because I had the fresh Navy Exchange haircut as a reminder. We always got haircuts when we went grocery shopping because the Exchange and Commissary were in the same building. There would be a lot of food to choose from today, but I knew those pickings would rapidly get slimmer over the next twelve days leading up to the next payday. I figured since I wouldnt want to eat poorly prepared Hamburger Helper Stroganoff for three days straight, I should get those out of the way first since nobody else would willingly choose to cook them. If there was one thing that the seven of us could agree on it was that Hamburger Helper was, in general, pretty horrible. Hamburger Helper Stroganoff, in particular, was vile. As I went about preparing the meal, I opened the pantry in our shitty trailer, in a broken down trailer park, in a spectacularly shitty and broken down part of Charleston, South Carolina and perused the entire shelf of box after box with that stupid glove staring back at me. I had always envisioned those boxes with that white glove in the top right corner as an army column in my head. Those boxes bravely marching in lockstep to eliminate weeknight hunger. The promise depicted by the picture on these boxes was of a happy family sitting around the table smiling and laughing and talking about their respective days. It was easy to imagine a warm and tender mother looking on while a taciturn but loving father doles out life advice and help with homework problems. But that box was a lie. In our house, Dad was often deployed fighting the Soviet Menace, hundreds of feet below the oceans surface aboard his various submarines. Absences of hundreds of days and nights were not uncommon. The military pay for enlisted men in the 1980s was not exactly luxurious and the pace of operations was frantic. Belinda, his wife and my stepmother, was left to mind the home and children. Brian and Jonathan, my two brothers, and I, were from Dads previous 5 PATRICK FRITZ marriage and Brenda, John, and Brandy hailed from Belindas. Our most recent addition to the brood, Cody, was adopted from Belindas sister. buttery and made a slight squeaking noise when you bit into them as well prepared noodles are wont to do. Customarily, the boxes were lined up exactly the same way. All facing one direction, like little soldiers on parade. Today was different though! Today, one soldier decided that he did not want to pass in review. The spot that should have that bright white glove was instead filled withwords. The shock that Belinda, normally so rigid and inf lexible, allowed those boxes to be out of order was enough to throw my mind into confusion. Though, I had prepared this boxed-dinner quite a few times and had a habit of reading anything with words on it, this had escaped my prior notice. Serving Suggestions the title seemed to scream at me. I reached for the box hesitantly. Did Belinda leave this one separate for a reason? Was this something that she was saving for another night? Why was this one different? Looking back, there arent many happy memories of that trailer. Dad and Belinda obviously felt it was my fault that we had to move there. John and I had gotten in quite a bit of trouble when we lived in Navy housing. I was in trouble mostly by association but somehow seemed to receive the lions share of blame. John was often excused because of his poor upbringing with his father in Omaha, Nebraska. With our clan being so large, and military pay alone being inadequate to provide for all of us, Belinda finally got a job to help with household expenses. While it was nice to have her out of the house for a period of time now there were seven kids that needed to be fed with no adult around to help. We had subsisted on Hamburger Helper for a couple of years now. It was inexpensive and was always on sale. The eleven year old me figured that was because nobody who had money would eat it. Though eating it every night wasnt different, having to cook it ourselves was a new development. Curiosity, which always preceded trouble for me, made me pick up that box. In retrospect, I am pretty sure I just intended to turn it around and make it fall in line with the rest of the White-Glove Army. After all, in our militarily rigid house, individuality is not a celebrated trait! My eyes were drawn to that bright yellow/orange script. Add one half of a sliced onion and one four ounce can of Green Giant Mushrooms Pieces and Stems And then, it hit me. I remembered when Dad used to make stroganoff. There were always lots of onions and mushrooms! The noodles werent the broken, rubbery pieces that were settled in the bottom of the box. They were rich and 6 Of the seven of us, only four of us were old enough to cook. My step-brother John was simply too dense to figure out how to do things like operate a stove, choose the correct pans, and measure things. My step-sister Brandy simply had no desire to learn any of the domestic arts. My step-sister Brenda, at eighteen, was ready to f ly the coop at any moment to go live her fantasy life with Eric and eventually repeat the mistakes of her mother. My brothers, Brian and Jonathan, were too young to help much, DINNER DISCOVERY and our newly adopted brother Cody was still in diapers. Brenda had completely disengaged from the family (such as we were) to spend her time with Eric. Our turf had been established and our cliques had been formed. John and me. Brian and Jonathan. Brandy and Cody. Brenda and Eric. With the near constant fighting and annoyances, we warily moved around our staked out areas. The one constant was the White-Glove Army on those Hamburger Helper boxes as our dinner companions. Since nobody else wanted to cook, it allowed me my very own area that I was in control of. The stove was my vehicle for getting away from everyone and establishing my very own turf, even if it was only for an hour. should be. I always imagined the big green bean processing factory in the middle of the country somewhere (I have no idea why I always have, and still do, imagine all the processing plants being somewhere on the Kansas plains) with workers busily canning beans starting with the Jolly Green Giant. Then came the smaller store brands. Finally, it got down to the stuff for the commissaries. Now, as I held that fateful box of beef stroganoff I had a revelation! I dont have to eat this swill as is? I was allowed, nay, SUGGESTED to make changes? With great trepidation, I started looking around the pantry. Here, a dusty can of green beans. That wouldnt be much use to me. There, a slightly dented can of mushrooms. Gods be blessed! There are a couple dusty, old Spanish Onions on the bottom shelf of the pantry! Now we are in business! I had my weapons of war gathered now. My intrepid White-Glove Soldier who decided to go his own way, my bruised and bowed but not broken onions. I had my dented can of mushrooms and my faithful servant, the rusty can opener. It was missing one of the soft rubber grips so it cut into my hand as I opened the cans. The gears were gummed up and dirty from years of not being cleaned properly after use. But, semper fidelis, it was standing by for my orders. Our cans of vegetables didnt have a lot of fancy pictures of happy green giants or verdant fresh green beans or frolicking elves picking corn kernels so plump and succulent they were dripping with sweet juice. No, ours were in a silver can with a white label that simply read, Beans, Green. Number 2 Sieve, Grade A in bold, black block lettering. They were in fact green. I am fairly certain they were actually green beans. But they tasted like disappointment and the broken dreams of what a legume Hey, Bob! What do I do with the little mushy nasty green beans? Uh, well, I dunno. I guess just put them into the white label cans. We can sell them at the commissary to poor people. I hadnt thought this all the way through, I quickly realized. I had all my ingredients arranged on the counter but no idea in what order to put them in. Did I still do it in the order that I always did? Did I put the mushrooms and onions in first? The refrains of, IM HUNGRY!!!! were creating no small amount of anxiety. Seven kids after a long school day, and all we had to eat was the mediocre school lunch. Though the 7 PATRICK FRITZ price for the school lunch was right (read: free) it wasnt going to hold the clambering masses much longer. So I started at the beginning. I browned my bargain-bin beef. I added the broken noodle pieces and stirred for one to three minutes. Next came the one-cup of water with the half-cup of milk. I figured now was as good of a time as any to add the recommended vegetables. I fought and struggled with the faithful, old, rusty can opener and managed to finally get that battered can of mushroom stems and pieces open. Ten long minutes later, a product that somewhat resembled what I remembered of the stroganoff Dad made in happier times was in front of me. For the first time, I was actually nervous about serving something. My stomach was in knots. I couldnt eat what I had painstakingly prepared. I was standing by for five voices to tell me this was just another thing in a long line of things I had screwed up. I set it on the table and steeled myself for the criticism to come. Five sets of eyes greedily stared at the dented stainless steel pan that held the object of their stomachs desire. They took turns ladling the hot noodles and sauce into their bowls. Oh man. John was taking his first bite. Here it comes. He let out a non-committal grunt. While it may not seem like much to most people, I interpreted that as a great sign of success. Brandy 8 poked at her plate in the manner of all picky-eating children. Brian and Jonathan sat quietly shoving food into their hungry maws. Brenda decided that this was lame, and was going to go eat at Erics house. Cody sat there in his high chair eating his white-labeled baby food. While I would love to say that the accolades poured in from all of my mini-diners, that just didnt happen. They slurped it up and sopped up the extra rich sauce with their buttered bread. Dutifully, they took the plates to the sink, rinsed, and washed them of any remaining remnants of dinner. We wiped the table and put the chairs exactly six inches away from the edge. A quick look at the clock let us know that Belinda would be home in about forty-five minutes and a look at the calendar reminded me that it would be about 126 days until Dad was supposed be back. We settled in for a calm, Wednesday night of watching Americas Funniest Home Videos until bedtime. Brian spoke to me from his spot in the familial puppy pile. Hey, Patrick. Yeah, what up, Brian? Did you do something different with that stroganoff? A little. Why? It tasted a lot like Dads used to. FL Portrait Kendall Madigan 9 Dont Slack Off BY ANNE K ATHERINE BROOKS GRAPHIC NARRATIVE 10 11 12 FL 13 Box of Evil WORDS BY R. LEWIS WRIGHT SHORT STORY The movers had just finished carrying in the last boxes and were climbing into their truck to leave. Max stepped out of the side door of his parents pale blue minivan and got his first look at their new home at the end of Silvia Drive. It was on old, large, two-story plantation house with a wraparound porch and a widows walk on the roof. He didnt want to be here. Hed left all his friends in the city, and now just one short day after his twelfth birthday, he was staring at this ancient excuse for a home and isolated oblivion. He ran up the concrete walk, the front stairs, and charged through the large front door left standing open, determined to put as much space between himself and the parents who had betrayed him with this banishment. The house was clean and virtually free of dust. Beautiful dark hardwood floors led to the wide staircase, running from the front door straight up to the first f loor landing, before turning to continue up to the attic. Heedless, he continued to dash up the stairs to find his room. He entered a large room on the backside of the 14 house with two huge sets of windows to find the movers had already assembled his bed. He threw himself down on it and covered his head with the pillow to stif le his anger. A few minutes later his mother poked her head through the door and asked, See honey, its not so bad, right? From under his pillow he yelled, Mom, I already hate this place! I wanna go home. Im sorry honey. You know we cant do that. Im sure youre going to like it here, once you get settled in. Why dont you explore the house and start unpacking your stuff. Itll feel more like home once you have your things around you. Coming out from under his pillow he complained, Mom, I dont have any friends here. He brandished his cell phone at her as an accusation, Ive got no signal, and theres no Wi-Fi in the house. How am I supposed to live? The cable guy is coming to connect the Internet tomorrow. Im sure you can survive for one day, she replied sweetly. MOM! he yelled, exasperated with her. Honey, theres nothing in the kitchen. Your dad and I need to run out and get some groceries. Do you want to go with us or stay here? Plunging his head back under the pillow and after a scream of frustration he said dejectedly, Whats the point? Just go. Im going to find my ball glove. She stood for a moment longer waiting for validation that was unlikely to come. After a shake of her head, she turned on her heel and left the doorway standing empty in her wake. A few moments later, Max heard the large solid oak front door close firmly as his parents left. Reluctantly, he got off the bed and went in search of his things. The movers had left boxes in every room, but none of them were where they should be. In his room, the first one he opened was full of pots and pans. The second was full of his mothers clothes. The third box had an ominous look to it. It was older, faded and stained, the clear tape sealing the top had yellowed and turned brittle. One corner was smashed in. He knew his ball glove couldnt possibly be in there, but curiosity had taken over his will. He couldnt resist the urge to see what was inside. He ripped the tape off the box showering dust everywhere and opened the f laps. The contents seemed ancient. On top in the center was a picture in an ornate silver frame. His mother as a teenager was standing next to his grandmother, both of them smiling. His grandmother was wearing her standard gray dress and her favorite necklace with the large oval blue stone surrounded by a ring of small clear gems. Max lifted the picture out and lying on a bed of comic newsprint underneath was the same necklace from the picture. He set the picture aside and lifted the necklace out of the box, holding it up in front of his face. The rays of sunshine coming through the window caught in the stone of the pendant as it twirled in his hand splashing a kaleidoscopic pattern against the walls. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he heard a wind-chime in the distance and deep sigh somewhere behind him. As it continued to rotate slowly he noticed some scratches on the flat gold back. He peered closer with one eye closed and realized it was writing, but he couldnt quite make it out. He shrugged his shoulders, tucked the necklace in his shirt pocket, and continued digging down through the layers of newsprint. Halfway down was a box even older than his previous discoveries. It was about the size of a large family bible, made of thin wood veneers, stained a very dark almost cherry color. The double doors on the front were latched closed with black metal clasps and tied with tiny twine. When he touched the box a shiver ran down his spine, but he couldnt help himself. He watched powerless as his hands untied the twine and f lipped the latch to free the little doors. When he pulled gently on them, the doors flew open. A blast of cold air sprang from the box and enveloped him before f lying out of the room. He shook himself and examined the contents. In front was a silver goblet with strange writing around the rim, next to a small vial of clear liquid, and a lock of hair bound with blue sewing thread. Glued to the back of the box was a small round mirror, the kind found in womans makeup compact. 15 Landmark Rachel House 16 BOX OF EVIL He thought he heard a door slam somewhere in the house. Had his mother returned so quickly, he wondered? Mom? he called, Is that you? A quick trip out to the landing revealed the front door still closed fast. Little footsteps ran pitter-patter up the stairs next to him toward the attic door. Barely visible in the gloom above, the narrow attic door swung open and closed as he watched. Drafty old house, he speculated? He went back to his room, retrieved a flashlight from another box, and headed up the stairs to the attic. He swung the door open and shined the pale beam of light around the rough wooden floor. At each corner, small shadows seemed to skitter away like rats at the beams approach. For a moment he thought he heard the faintest little laughter at the edges. It wasnt the friendly or warm laughter of family and friends. It had a sneering quality, both sinister and threatening. Maybe Ill wait for someone else to be home before I explore up here any further, he said to himself. He closed the narrow green door tight and made sure it was securely latched. Just as he did, he heard another door slam. This time he was sure it was on the main f loor below. Carefully, he crept down the stairs. The living room, study, and other rooms on the main floor all seemed perfectly normal. Through the currently empty kitchen he found a door unlike the others. A constant cold draft escaped from underneath it. He opened it and shined his little f lashlight through the opening. Panning the light down, he could make out the stairs to the basement. Reluctant to enter the basement alone, but determined to track down the source of the strange sounds, he took the steps one by one. Reaching the bottom he scanned around the area looking at the natural stone walls held in place by cracking mortar. I must be outta my mind, he said out loud. The basement was almost empty, but on the far side was a large wine rack covering one whole wall. Only one lonely, dusty bottle of wine remained there. He retrieved the clear bottle of burgundy liquid bearing an indistinguishable label saying, I guess we were both abandoned here. At that, he thought he caught a glimpse of a shadow on the far wall that couldnt possibly be his own. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as the far away shape slid across the wall, disappearing with a noise like fingernails scratching across the concrete f loor. Fear sent Max f lying out of the basement and up the stairs clutching the bottle. He set it on the kitchen counter as he dashed past and tore up the stairs to his room. At the top, he tripped over a dark patch on the f loor, landing face down on the landing. Searching behind him, there was nothing. Somewhere outside, in the distance, a dog let out a long lonely howl. Up again and charging forward, he slid to a stop at his bedroom door. Every single box in his room, except the one holding his grandmothers things, had been upended, scattering their contents everywhere. Stepping over the mess, he picked his way back over to the remaining box and began digging deeper. He tossed aside one useless trinket after another until he hit rock bottom and pay dirt. Lying on the very bottom was a leather bound journal bearing his familys coat of arms on the front and tied closed with its own straps. 17 R. LEWIS WRIGHT He lifted it reverently from the box. Turning it over in his hands, he untied the straps holding it closed. A sudden bout of butter fingers caused him to brief ly juggle the book before dropping it on the f loor. Devilish, evil laughter echoed up the steps, and heavy footfalls could be heard pounding slowly up the stairs outside. The sun, which had been streaming in the windows so eagerly before, now seemed to fade, muted by the approach of something dark. The air in the room became as cold as ice, and Max could see his breath. He looked down to see the journal open to a page with a depiction of the wooden box he had opened. It was labeled, The dybbuk box. Below it said, A prison for dark entities that cannot be otherwise driven out or banished. Oh great. That stupid box was for holding demons, and I opened it. He f lipped through the book, working his way back to page one. Handwritten spells and informational guides filled the pages. On page one, proudly written in bold script, was the title, Practical Witchcraft in Modern Times. Smaller, below it said, If youre reading this without permission, youre trespassing. Youve been warned. Somewhere else in the house, it sounded as if a herd of rampaging elephants were helping the family unpack their precious belongings. Small dark shapes kept darting past the doorway, and he thought, he heard them snickering as they went. He picked the journal up from the floor and set 18 it on the edge of the bed. Okay, I let this thing out. Now what do I do? he asked. The journal slid off the edge of the bed and landed on the f loor again, open to a new page. It said, To catch the most dangerous and powerful demons, one needs bait. Since they feed upon the life of others, blood is ideal. Once you have constructed a suitable container for the dark entity. Use a silver goblet with a few drops of blood and a small amount of wine to draw them out. When they appear speak the words, bibere, daemoniis immolant et exiturum, and then quickly thrust the cup into your demon trap. Max grabbed up a kitchen knife from the f lotsam spread everywhere across his f loor and scooped up the dybbuk box from where it lay. He almost tumbled down the stairs in his haste and set up shop in the kitchen, which now had every cabinet door and drawer standing open. Max used the tip of the knife to prick the index finger of his left hand and allowed a couple drops of his blood to drain into the silver goblet before wrapping it with a clean white cloth. He opened the old dusty bottle of red wine hed found in the basement, and poured some into the cup. He looked at the bottle and thought to himself, no one will ever know. Then he tipped the bottle back and took a hefty swig. He held up the goblet with both hands and recited the words from the journal, bibere, daemoniis immolant et exiturum. Dark shadows began sliding across the walls from both sides. They leapt from the walls and began to f loat through the air as dark misty shapes. An occasional glimpse of fiery visage or demonic BOX OF EVIL horns gave testimony to their intelligence. The clouds began to circle the cup like vultures circling a newly discovered corpse. Max thrust the cup back into the old wine box. Now the circling forms let out a screech of alarm. The box was acting like a magnet, pulling them close, dragging them down. They circled tighter and faster as they were drawn, unwilling into the box. The largest of the shadows grasped the edges of the box brief ly with obsidian claws before disappearing with a wail of finality. Max slammed the doors to the little wooden box finally sealing in the demon and his minions. It vibrated and shook for a moment before falling still. He carefully turned the metal latch on the cover to secure the miniature double doors, placed it back in the cardboard box, and recovered it with the newsprint. Then he closed up the outer box, carried it gingerly out of the room, and continued up the narrow stairs to the attic. He struggled with the slender, dark green door made from rough cut lumber. When it finally begrudgingly f lew open with a horrendous screech, he lugged his burden into the attic. In the far corner, he pulled back the small loose panel concealing the pulley mechanism of the ancient dumbwaiter. With some difficulty, he squeezed and pushed the box into the almost too small opening. Max replaced the loose paneling and stacked everything he could find against it. Then he collapsed on his back and tried to slow his rapid breath and pounding heart. A deep bang echoed up from the first f loor, causing him to jump to his feet and dash back down the stairs. At the first floor landing he could see his father carrying the groceries into the kitchen and his mother still taking off her coat. Oh, hi there sweetie. Did you find your ball glove? she asked. Max bounded down the stairs and gripped his mother in a desperate bear hug. He squeezed her so hard she objected mildly, Easy honey, youre hurting me. She patted his head and rubbed his back. When he still refused to let go, she asked, Whats wrong? Max released her and stood back to look into her face. Mom, did you know Grandma was a witch? Oh honey, your grandmother wasnt a witch. What gave you that crazy idea? Max gasped out the truth that had been bound up in his chest, I found her journal in one of the old boxes. It was full of spells and other weird stuff. Oh honey, your grandmother was a writer. Just before she passed away she was working on a novel about something like that. That book you found is just her notes. Its not real. A tear escaped Maxs eye. He cast about for some explanation. He was standing, bathed in bright sunshine beaming through the front door, but he couldnt see his shadow cast anywhere around him. He held out his hand trying to catch the sunlight, but despite the bright light on his palm, the dark shape which should have been on the f loor underneath was nowhere to be found. FL 19 Nanda Parbat Carter Eggleston 20 21 Trapped HORROR STORY BY KELLY WILMER The laughter so loud yes, yes, an unbearable roar. Possessors of the shadows, gushing tears of blood pour, my vulnerability, an opportunity. Trapped within, I cannot escape. Every ounce of my mental strength, The possessors convulsing in pain, laughter grew and grew. Less control, puss begins to ooze inside the depths of my mind. Trapped within, I cannot escape. devoted towards combating these thoughts, A surge traveled, slowing the convulsions, cold crimson my only company. Their stalking shadows came to a complete halt, paralysis. Trapped within, I cannot escape. so I could think of a silent prayer or plea My own thoughts become more horrendous and powerful, Im drowning. In the midst of a restless night, it was there, in my gait, stabbing, withering in agony. Trapped within, I cannot escape. to any god or entity out there Robbed of my senses, I have less control every second that passes by. Trapped within, I cannot escape. who can save me. Richard Richard, can you hear me? The doctor says. The doctor looks at the nurse, then she at him and says, No change this morning. They both look back at Richard and watch him continue to rock back and forth, curled up in a ball on top of his bed. 3RD PLACE | 3 MINUTE HORROR STORY 22 Surreal Project Cheryl Anne DeAngelis 23 Butterfly Girl Aja Cenon 24 Why Then... POEM BY ANTONIA FLORENCE Charleston, South Carolina Summer Mud pies, rabbit tracking and other such fun. I wont play with girls because their dolls are stupid! This weekend, when dad came home, he had to retrieve dolly from the storm drain, thrice! Why didnt he just bring me back a monkey, live? Why do you make me come in at the end of day? I want to sleep under the stars, swing on the up-curved tail of the moon, dance, with the fire flies. The one which maddens me the most, clothes. Kevin nor Peter have to wear shirts, Why then do I? Ill fit right in with the boys! I have on two pair of shorts, see? One with flowers; these I wear for you. Doesnt that count? Fine! If I walk s-l-o-w-l-y around the yard, then run behind the bush, I can make a soft fluffy nest for the birds, They asked me to, out of my shirt! You see, I am not a bad child, just independent, strong and different. Why then do I have to wear this dress for this stupid picture? 25 Calling the Game WORDS BY KEITH WILLIAMS SHORT STORY Aaron checked the time on his phone: 6:59. With the sun set, the only light in his apartment was the TV and the lamp on the table by the sofa. Once again, he reminded himself that the bulb in the lamp was too dim and that he should remember to get a new one. He also knew he would completely forget to do so until the next time he thought about how dim the bulb was. He set his phone on the table in front of the sofa, putting it in a notably open spot. He sat on the sofa, grabbed a slice of pineapple and green olive pizza from his plate on the table, and f lopped back to get comfortable while he ate. His phone chimed an incoming text; it was only Rebecca. Becca: Good evening. Aaron: Howdy. Becca: Doing anything fun? Aaron: Soccer game. On his TV, a player had just made a shot that came nowhere near the 26 goal. Though he wasnt particularly a fan of either team, he had DVRed the game, figuring watching the match would help pass the time. Becca: Texting while playing soccer? Wow, youve got skill. Aaron: Funny. He knew she would appreciate every drop of sarcasm he used to type that. Becca: So, youre watching a game, want me to tell you who wins? Becca: Kidding. Becca: Ive experienced you after you get spoiled on a game. Becca: So. Becca: I can come over. Aaron: No you cant. He couldnt type the words fast enough. But upon rereading his sent text, he figured he should give her an explanation since he would normally have no problem with her being there. Aaron: Im waiting for a phone call, hopefully a long one. Becca: Oh, I get it, a phone call. Her text was complete with a winking face with its tongue poking out. Aaron thought about that face for a moment and tried to replicate it himself, and then felt glad no one could see his attempt. But that was enough of her; Becca might have been Aarons best friend since they met first year at college, but there was only one person he was interested in talking to right now. He opened a blank text and typed, Cant wait to hear from you. He selected the recipient and hit send. A couple minutes later, there was a reply just a smiley face but it was enough to make Aaron himself smile. He set his phone back down in its reserved spot on the table and took another chomp of his pizza. The first half of the game was mostly uneventful. Both teams made more than a few bad passes in the midfield, giving the ball away far too easily. Halfway through the halftime analysis, he took the opportunity to grab some water. While at the sink, he heard his phone ringing back out in the living room. He shot out of the kitchen so fast that by the time he crashed into the sofa, he had overshot his seat and fell off the edge and onto the f loor. He did not bother getting up, just grabbed his phone, and saw it was his father. The phone stopped ringing before Aaron could answer. He let out a bit of a growl. So not in the mood, he said out loud as he decided to not call his dad back. Settling back into his spot as the second half of the game started, Aaron lost himself in the match. With the game clock hitting the 76th minute, he chomped on the crust of the last piece of pizza, having broken his vow to only eat two slices and save the rest for later. Both teams had been playing with greater energy, and while neither had scored any goals, a couple players for each side had picked up yellow cards for reckless tackles. As the referee showed the yellow yet again, this time to one teams midfielder, Aarons phone rang. After stuffing the last piece of crust into his mouth, he grabbed the phone and saw his mother was calling. Hey Ma, he said, still chewing. Hey sweetie. How are you? she began. Im fine Mom. Aaron resigned himself to the conversation. He loved his mother plenty, but still, she had to call right now? Am I bothering you? Nah, Aaron swallowed the last of the pizza. Im just watching soccer. He knew his mom would forgive him for being distracted. She had gotten him involved in soccer when he was a kid when it was just sort of the thing to do, and as he developed more and more of a love for the game, she had always been more than 27 willing to make sure he made it to practices and matches and that he had whatever gear he needed. Do you have anything else going on this evening? she asked. She seemed a bit hesitant. Great, what did she want him to do? Not too much, why? he asked cautiously. Your fathers gone out. He said something about stopping by. Aaron felt much like the goalkeeper being shown on replay getting hit in square in the face by the ball. The game coverage showed the hit a second time, in even slower motion than the first replay. The commentators were saying something about how that was one way to block a shot. Uh, I was kind of counting on a quiet night, honestly. Well, I thought I should warn you. He didnt think he should call and ask me first? You know your father. Aaron grunted. Yeah, he knew him. I just thought Id give you a heads-up. Herman Erin Kennedy 28 Yeah, thanks Mom. Aaron hung up. Ever since Aaron had gotten his own place, his father had always thought it was fine to just show up whenever he wanted, like his son was just sitting there waiting for him. Aaron stood up and walked halfway from the sofa to the kitchen so he could have some empty f loor space to pace around in; he could already tell he was going CALLING THE GAME to need it. He stood there a moment, closed his eyes, let out a bit of an open throated roar, and then started scrolling through his contacts to pull up his dads number. He hit call. After more than a few rings, the outgoing voicemail message started playing. Somehow, his dad had found a tone of voice to make that message sound like he was blaming you for having bad timing and not calling when he could answer. Aaron hung up, waited a minute, and tried again. Eventually, his dad answered, Hello. Are you at the store right now? Yeah. I was going to swing by afterward, his dad said, sounding like he was barely paying attention. You brought hummus you bought the other day with you as you went to the store now? Okay, strange. Now, how is that strange? The tone of his dads voice changed. The anger switch had clearly just been f lipped. Hey, Dad. Mom called and said youre going to come over here? Its not, Aaron sighed. Look, dad, I dont think coming over tonight is a good idea. Yeah, his dad started. Youre not doing anything are you? His dad did not wait for an answer before continuing. I went by the store the other day and saw that they had that hummus you like, so I bought a bunch of it. I thought Id bring it by. Whats wrong with me stopping by? Ive already had dinner, Aaron tried to counter. You dont have to eat it right now. How about I just get it when I come over tomorrow? His dad had asked him the day before to come by sometime that weekend, and Aaron thought that they had reached an agreement for tomorrow to be the day. I dont really have room in my fridge, and Ive already got it with me. Hey, do you need any toilet paper? Im not currently on the toilet, so no. Theyve got some on sale. I can get you some too while Im at it. Were you even going to call me and ask if I was home before you did? I did call. You didnt answer. The point is you didnt check with me first before deciding to come over, Aaron tried to explain. You are at home, right? his dad asked, like Aarons point was invalidated by the fact of his location. Yeah, Aaron said quietly. Then why cant I stop by? Because I have something going on tonight. Aaron hoped his dad could hear the pleading in his voice. What could you have going on at home? Aaron growled, then tried to calm down. Dad, Im waiting for a phone call. 29 KEITH WILLIAMS Seriously? his dads voice grew even rougher. You dont want me to stop by because you want to talk on the phone? Ive been waiting for it all evening. I thought I was being nice, buying you something, and you dont want me to bring it over because you cant wait to talk on the phone until after I leave? Aaron suddenly had a vision of his dad staying for an hour or more. You asked me to come over tomorrow, so why cant I get it then? Ive already got it with me. You really are being ungrateful, you know. If I even liked the stuff, Id eat it myself. Aaron echoed his dads words in his mind: The stuff. His dad had always acted like hummus was something weird, like it was some food from aliens come to Earth. I didnt ask you to get it for me, Aaron objected. I should see if I can return it to store. Aaron shook his head. Its nice that you got it for me, but I dont need it right now. You really should have made sure you knew if I was busy before deciding to bring it. As far as you knew, I wasnt going to be home at all tonight. You could have respected me and asked, but you didnt. And you could respect me now and ac- 30 cept that I want the night to myself. Aaron had grown frustrated long ago over how it seemed the only way to avoid a fight with his dad was to always give in to whatever his dad wanted. After getting his own place, Aaron decided he had to start standing up to his dad more. You dont know the first thing about respect, his dad ranted. Well, if I dont, then its because I learned from you. Maybe Ill just throw the stuff in the trash. Dad, theres no reason to act like that, Aaron said. A long moment of silence followed. Im going to go, his dad finally said. Ill be over tomorrow. Dont trouble yourself. Dad, seriously, Ill be over tomorrow. This isnt as big a deal as youre making it. Fine, he huffed. See you then, Aaron tried to test if his dad had calmed down. Mmhmm, his dad grunted as he hung up the phone. CALLING THE GAME Aaron tapped to end the call on his end, just in case his dad had not actually done so on the other. He tossed his phone at the sofa, where it slid partially down between two cushions. He stood there in the middle of the room, eyes closed, and sighed. Why did every conversation with his dad have to be so hard? Why did his dad seem to enjoy fighting over the most asinine things? On the TV, the midfielder who had been yellow carded earlier was being shown a second yellow, and then came the resulting red card. The midfielder turned from the ref and started walking, shaking his head as he went. I know how you feel, Aaron said to him, as the camera cut to show the player walk off the pitch and down the tunnel toward the locker room. Aarons phone rang. Oh my God! he shouted, clinching his fists against his forehead. No more phone calls! He stormed over to the sofa and grabbed the phone, planning on swiping to ignore the call, but then Aaron saw the name. Hey, he said, quietly. Hey babe, how are ya? Actually, a lot better now, he said, his breathing retuning to a normal calm. Better is always good. Ive missed ya, James said. Missed you too. Aaron loved talking to James, starting as far back as their first date two years ago. Even with the evening concluded that first night, and their having gone their separate ways, James ended up calling Aaron after he had gotten home. They had then talked on the phone for five hours, with Aaron falling asleep while getting lost in Jamess voice. The referee blew the fulltime whistle, but Aaron couldnt care less about the game. He spread out on the sofa as the post-game commentary began. So, what should we talk about? James asked. Hearing the deep resonance of his voice, Aaron felt more than ever that this would be a particularly long call. FL James. The corner of his mouth started to turn up into a smile as he swiped to answer. 31 Vector Self Portrait Aja Cenon 32 Thank You POEM BY DARIEN TINSLEY Thank you Thank you for not shutting me out like the others Thank you for not judging me before even seeing my colors Thank you for keeping me sane Thank you for being one of the most thoughtful friends Thank you for riding with me till the end Thank you for liking me for me Thank you for showing me what else I could be Thank you for those pep talks that only you could give Thanking you is like giving out the Nobel Peace Prize And the applause is written all in your eyes I cant thank you enough for all the wonderful ways you done what you done Because you are my best friend, and will always be number one 33 Writers Unite 1ST PLACE 3 Minute Horror Story Contest Aqua Velva WORDS BY ANNETTE COUCH- JAREB 2ND P t r HORROR STORY When Michelle was little, a monster lived under her bed. She could hear it scratching the f loor, tearing the fabric on the underside of RD the box springs. She could smell its mustiness and once, she could have sworn she heard it crunching the bones of its victim. (She never had liked that cat and it wasnt missed.) 3 Now that she was grown, the monsters came in blonde packages that reeked of too much aftershave. The phone on her nightstand pinged and a glance confirmed it was that guy from biology texting her again. Monster might be harsh, but he was definitely becoming a pest. She punched the buttons that would block his calls. With the phone back in its charger, she settled on her pillow. They had gone out for coffee twice. He sat beside her in class and looked perturbed whenever there was no seat available. Recently, he had begun turning up more than was statistically likely. The final straw had been his showing up this evening at the start of her art class. She saw him the moment she stepped around the corner. He stood awkwardly outside the studio door, looking first left, then right. Whatre you doing here? she asked. Came to see you. Thought we could grab a bite later. I get out at ten oclock. It would be dark when she got out. The parking lot was always nearly deserted when she left the building. Im already meeting someone after, she lied. She would have moved past, but he blocked her path. Really? Hurt, anger, then nonchalance. No matter. I can still see you safely home. No. Her voice was edged with annoyance. She softened. Listen. I think you may have misunderstood. It was just coffee. Youre nice, but Im not looking for a relationship with anyone. This, and she waved a hand back and forth between them, makes me uncomfortable. She would forever associate the smell of his too strong aftershave with this unpleasantness. There was the hurt and anger again. A muscle f lexed in his jaw, and he turned away on a swear, not quite under his breath. 34 CE t r She was half afraid he would be there after class, but he was not. Still, she kept looking over her shoulder until she was safely home. Now, she punched a hole in her pillow and tried to settle. Snap. She sat up with a start. A breeze blew in through her window. Michelle pulled her hair out of its clip and resettled her head on the pillow. She was almost asleep when she heard it again. Snap. She shuff led in bed, pulling the sheet to her neck. It reminded her of when she was a child afraid of the monster under her bed. This was irrational, she chided herself. Thats when she saw him. Her stalker pushed up the window and put his leg over the side. She sat up, tried to scream. The sound stuck in her throat. The stalker smiled. Put a finger to his lips. She tried to move away. He took a step closer. Just then, a claw-like hand shot out from under the bed. She would never forget her attackers expression. His smile twisted and his screams were silenced almost before they began. The sound of bones crunching came from under the bed, then the sound of lips sucking at the marrow. Michelle fainted. The next morning, she woke with a start. She pulled herself to look over the side of her bed. There was nothing - just a faint mustiness and the pungent scent of Aqua Velva. Tree Silhouettes Tanya Fleming 35 Shattering Patterns POEM BY ANNETTE CASHATT Falling through a glittering tapestry of all the lightest music in the world falling falling falling The glitter flakes away. Heaviness soaks through my skin, infects my blood, straight to my heart, all is black dark dark dark This is not who I am, not what Im meant to be. How could I be--? running running running Its bitter tasting, cold, who took the light? searching searching searching This was never what I meant to happen. Why do I ask so many questions when I have the answers? How can I ever be lost when I create the path? create the path 36 Spaceman Adam Mcloch 37 Untitled Olivia Battani 38 No More POEM BY QUAMIA DENNIS No Makeup do you need your beautiful without that make up. That dot upon your face is what makes you. No makeup you need your beautiful without the powder. To me youre a desire. women, lady, young girl. You have your own special unique way. That scar right below your cheek, your complexion, dont need any powder to compete. What makes you is beautiful. When you walk up under that night sky stars shine right above you just smiling at you, God the one who made you beautifully. Dont need anyone to tell you that youre beautiful. Go ahead look into the mirror And say to yourself I am who I am. My scars, My dots, Be free, No more make up do I need 39 The Death Room WORDS BY SARAH DOL AN CREATIVE NON-FICTION Your Grandma had pancreatic cancer, Kate. She isnt going to live through this one. Pancreatic cancer? I looked out the window at 1:00am, and watched the rain hit the glass as we continued to drive, and thought how appropriate it was that it was raining when someone was dying. I wondered what kind of cancer that was, but I didnt want to ask. We drove up to her house, where a lot of my relatives that I didnt even know were staying to help Grandma in her last days. I had never seen someone near death before. I was really afraid to go into that house, as if somehow death could grab me and take me along with Grandma. She was my great grandma, 100 years old, and everyone seemed amazed that she had lived as long as she had. Mama told me to get out of the car, and I did too, along with my older brother. We went inside, and the first thing that I saw was a teenage girl asleep on a chair. She woke up with a start and came over to my mom and they hugged. My brother and I stayed outside of the room where my grandma was dying. The girl was 17 years old, I learned later. She had really dark circles under her eyes, and had the appearance of crying a lot. This girl had a sweet face, but I didnt think it was exactly pretty. I thought, though, if she had makeup on, she might look really nice. The girl came over to us, and was trying to be friendly. I think she knew that we were nervous. My mom came out of the death room, and said it was time to go to the hotel, but we would be back tomorrow. I didnt want to go back to that house. The next morning, we went to that dreaded house. The girl was making coffee. Her dark circles seemed even darker. She seemed to be frustrated. She made some phone calls and talked very sternly to the people on the other end. I wasnt sure if I liked her or not. She came over to where my brother and I were sitting, and started talking to us. She was asking my brother what he thought about death, and if he ever thought about his own death. He said he thought that was a 40 morbid topic. She looked horrified. You never think about your own death? Dont you know it happens to all of us? We need to be ready for it like Grandmother is. She gave him a sad look, and then came over to me. She asked my age, and I told her I was 8. She asked me to go outside with her and we could take a walk. I went with her. It was raining, but she didnt seem to care. She took my hand and we started to skip down the sidewalk together. She looked at my face and smiled. Suddenly, I didnt feel afraid anymore. We started laughing. We ran back inside. A nurse was there. Someone told the girl to go in and help the nurse. She looked at me and asked me to come with her. I did. I went into that death room. The girl told me to sit down. I watched her help the nurse. I didnt dare look at Grandma. I stared straight into the girls eyes as she worked. She was changing the sheets and clothes of Grandma, and was rubbing lotion into her back. It smelled so bad in there that I felt lightheaded. How was the girl standing it? She looked up at me and smiled. In her face, I could see she too felt sick. But something else was there too. I dont know what. The next day, she came with us to the hotel. She ate breakfast with us. She went swimming with me. I wasnt feeling as afraid anymore. We went back to the house with Grandma in it. She went in and gave Grandma some medicine and helped change her again. I didnt watch this time though. That night, Grandmas pastor came to the house, as well as about 20 other relatives. It was a really small house, and the death room was extremely small. Even so, everyone squeezed into the room. The girl gave Grandma some more medicine. She kept talking to her. She was saying, No Grandmother, its her little sister. She isnt here open your mouth, I just need to put this under your tongue. No, dont pull on that it is giving you oxygen. Good girl. She came over to me with a sad look on her face. She looked really pale. A lot of people in the room were just staring at Grandma. The girl suddenly pulled me into a hug. She didnt let go. She was shaking. I looked at her face. There were no tears though. Someone told the girl to sing a song. She looked down and shook her head. Now there were tears. Everyone started crying. Everyone surrounded the bed. Please sing, baby, the girls mother said. The girl sighed heavily. She started to sing. She squeezed me even tighter. She was sobbing now, but somehow the notes came out strong and beautiful. I started to cry. By the end of the song, there was a silence in the room that seemed to never end. FL 41 Travel Poster Sue Fanning 42 VISIT NEW MEXICO New Mexico Christi Lynn-Saunders 43 Kourbania WORDS BY MARTIN STEVENS SHORT STORY A slap on the bicep. Youre burning it! Marimar had been running, laughing, past the short shrubs, softer than they looked. His broad back, clad in his faded yellow T-shirt, and his sinewy arms, rhythmically heaving up and down, were leading her on, beckoning her. The sun didnt seem so punishing today, the air not so thick. Little birds would f lutter up from the ground as the two of them bounded across the gently sloping hillside. The slap. The acrid smell of burning rice in the f limsy pot. Sorry, she breathed. cooked, and in their sheen she saw the darkness of his eyes. Paolo. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. Where is he right now? Playing football with the rough boys from the next town? Collecting bottles from the ragged roadside? Stealing again? Where else am I gonna get money? Youre going to get caught. Come on. He tussled her wavy, black hair. Stop. Dont stop. Dont ever stop. Eh?! Youll come with me when Im caught, right? Louder. Im sorry. Her face turned and met his in profile. Her sleepy eyes opened a little wider. Her mouth turned up ever so slightly. You got something else to cook? No response. In jail. Youll come with me right? Huh?! Softer. No. Then you pay attention. Her mother hefted herself outside. Marimar continued stirring. The beans were not yet 44 Her sweat slid off her sun-kissed skin and dripped into to the soapy water. Her hands were beginning to pucker when she heard the pounding on the dirt. It was coming fast. Paolo bounding across the short grass. Mari! Guess what, guess what! I got me a job. A good one. At the cola factory. And listen to this... He came very near her and lowered his voice. Theres this guy who works there. He said he knows about me, but I dont know how he knows me. Hes the one who hired me. He told me Im gonna do, like, cleaning and stuff, and thats gonna be my official job. Every sentence he spoke slower. But he says that, sometimes, hes gonna give me a little package, and Im supposed to take it to these people. I think this guy is some kind of spy, or something. And hes gonna give me cash on the down low...whats wrong? No no no no no, wait...its OK. Its OK, I swear... He doesnt know what hes doing. He wont listen to me. Hes going to get hurt. I feel it. I feel it everywhere. Theyll kill him. They dont care. Please, not him, Lord. Hes the only good thing that ever happened to me. Hes the only good thing in my life. I dont want to be alive if You take him. Please, God, you have to help him. Every bad thing thats coming to him, Lord, put it on me instead. Make me suffer. Not him. Put it all on my soul, on my body. Im begging you, Lord. Please. Her mothers breath was shallow. The rise and fall of her belly was almost imperceptible. Marimar ran the wet rag lightly over the sallow skin. She was exhausted, and still had so much to do after her mother was asleep. She left the little cup of f lower tea next to the candle and went out into the falling dusk. At the meager store down by the main road, Marimar pleaded with the shopkeeper to extend their credit. After his wife chastised him for trying to deny a sick womans daughter, he finally relented and passed her a modest bag of provisions. She thanked him again and again, with tears in her eyes, until he was annoyed with her and shooed her away. As she left, Marimar stopped and stared down the main road. She could just make out the tiny red and yellow pinpoints of lights that she knew were from the factory. She hated that place and wished they had built it someplace else, far away. The red and yellow glared back at her from the distance. When she could tolerate it no longer, she turned to the dusty path and walked brusquely towards home. She heard the screaming before she saw the appalling, bright, orange glow. The men vainly pitched dirt into the f laming shell of a house. The bag dropped from her fingers as the heat and the horror overwhelmed her. Her willowy frame swayed backward, and a hard pair of hands was suddenly around her waist. Marimar rocked back and forth on the thin carpet of the clinic. Its dim straw color was suddenly overtaken by black shoes. A serious man in a dark suit with a badge. He bent down. Marimar? I need to talk to you for a minute, is that OK? He wasnt to be refused. Your friend, Paolo, hes been missing for the past two days. No. No. I begged You. I begged You. He was last seen heading north in a pickup truck that belonged to the cola factory, and we have reason to believe the owners daughter was with him. Do you have any idea where he might have gone? Her mind couldnt think, but she felt a faint twinge. She tried to reach inside herself to touch it. Confusion. Anger. Anger in her delicate heart. Then, out loud, in spite of herself, Take me with you. FL 45 Young Sinners WORDS BY LEEANNA CHITTUM HORROR STORY Scarlett was almost finished with her meal when she noticed a family portrait hanging on the wall. When can I meet your parents Parker? she asked. He looked at her with a stern but sad look on his face. They died in a car accident when I was seven. She covered her mouth wishing she could take back the question she had asked. As she was apologizing, she glanced at his grandad, Walter. He then turned to Scarlett with tears in his eyes and shaking hands. Dinner is over. Walter removed the dirty plates from the table and hurried to the sink. Parker then took Scarlett out on the patio and listened to the rain drops hit the sidewalk. Im really sorry for bringing that up Parker. Scarlett cried. He gets weird whenever the car accident is brought up. My mother and grandad were really close when she was young. When I was born they started growing apart. My Mom wasnt married and sixteen when I was born. Parker explained. Grandad is very religious and was very mad at her for sinning at such a young age. He gets upset when people go against Gods word. Scarlett then changed the subject. It started to f lood so she called her parents and told them she was staying the night. As they entered the house, Walter was sitting by the fire place reading his bible. He mentioned the time and demanded the young teens to go to their separate bedrooms for the night. Dont come out until sunrise. He threatened. 46 When the clock struck two, Parker snuck to his grandads room to hear nothing but snoring then startled Scarlett to awake her. He then told her to follow him and to be super quiet. The lovers snuck down to the old red barn in the pouring rain, turned on the light, and slow danced to the rain tapping on the tin roof. As time slowly crept by, Parkers wrist watch beeped when it became 3 am. From his peripheral vision, he could see the farmhouse out of a dusty window, with a dim light casting from Scarletts room. He knew then that he was in trouble. He told Scarlett to run back to the house as fast as she can. She started running but her foot got stuck in the mud and fell into Walter; she screamed bloody murder. What are you kids doing in my barn? He grabs her in a headlock and chokes her until shes unconscious. In his hands, hes holding the family portrait with a knife through it. Parker comes running when he hears the screams. He runs to hold the body of Scarlett then starts arguing with the old man. One had a knife and one was bare handed. She wants to meet your parents, Parker. Walter spoke seriously holding the knife at the limping body. Dont touch her! Ill never forgive you! Walter screamed. Your parents wouldnt forgive me either. You killed my parents! Parker is too afraid to cry anymore knowing that the love of his life is in the arms of a murderer. Why on Earth would you kill your own daughter? She sinned at a young age. God doesnt like it when people sin. My calling is kill all sinners. Since you and Scarlett tried sneaking off in my barn, you both need consequences. As the knife was slowly approaching Scarlett, Parker tackled his grandad with all the might he had and knocked the air out of him. He grabbed Scarlett, called 911 and left his grandad to drown in the rain. 2ND PLACE | 3 MINUTE HORROR STORY 47 Hair BY ABIGAIL WOODWARD GRAPHIC NARRATIVE 48 THE FALL LINE THE FALL LINE PVCC LITERARY MAGAZINE, SPRING 2016 ISSUE  ...

... Cover art here 1 The Fall Line, spring 2009, has been selected, edited, and designed by the PVCC Poetry Club. Kathryn Ziegler, President Kevin Ferguson Sarah Ford Patience Lanier James McDonough KathrynLee Williams Brandon Willits Jenny Koster, Adviser Cover Design by KathrynLee Williams 2 Table of Contents Icarus | Zoe Gordon 5 The Things I Cant | Brandon Willits 6 All We Do is Talk | Rue Flynn 9 Satisfying Cut | Patience Lanier 10 The Daughters House | Lyndie Wood 11 Calm Hands | James McDonough 16 Like Me | KathrynLee Williams 19 Suicide Watch on the Locked Ward | Susan Horne Pilgrims | Patience Lanier 27 27 When I Was Sixteen | Emily Beker 28 Where Im From | Jamell Maxey 35 a willing vessel | Andrew Dugan 36 Modesty | Joy Meyer 38 Sole Food | Patience Lanier 45 The River | James McDonough 46 They Serve Budweiser in Heaven | KathyrnLee Williams 48 Rewind | Zoe Gordon 49 The 14th Morning | Kathryn Ziegler 56 3 4 Icarus | Zoe Gordon He smokes his cigarette like a toy Sucking at the filterblowing smoke like an artist Each flick of the wristpremeditated He is flyingup and up The ground from here is a memory His old life comes through telephone wires Covered with postage stamps and postmarks He flaps his wings The smell of tobacco soars on updrafts of warm air The spiral taking himhigher and higher The taste of the dream stays in his mouth His mothers scowlthe house without his father The gold table cloththe drum set he left behind He hopes the burn of vodka will make it go away The voice on the line is distant Cracks of bad reception Trickle into the conversation When are you coming home? He feels the heat on his face The molten wax trickles down his back He is suspended for the tick of a second And then the plummet, starting in the pit of his stomach The earth rears like a tidal wave Tears sting with honey-beeswax scent The angel wings disintegrate But now the burn First degreesecond degreethird degree burns His mothers voice on the other end Slices although he can hardly hear Static dancesvocal chords drone He braces himself for the collision 5 The Things I Cant | Brandon Willitts The A.A. meeting is held every Wednesday evening in the Fellowship Hall of First Baptist Church. I hate Wednesday. As my afternoon crawls into evening, I have dreadful visions of being surrounded by a depressing circle of alcoholic strangers and a suffocating stench of stale cigarettes and lifelong desperation. A sourness forms in my throat like acid reflux. Eventually, the anxiety overtakes my brain, and I am useless for the last hour of work. I leave work, walking down Second Avenue, and get to the church fifteen minutes early. I keep a distance from the others, standing across the street, watching them drift zombie-like toward the stairs. I think of Pavlovs dogs, from the small semi-circles formed, to the furious chainsmoking, even in their repeated weekly-conversations concerning the attendance patterns (or lack thereof) of other members. I wait until the last member puts out his cigarette and make my way into the church. The coffee machine sits on a rusty card table thats littered with used stir sticks, halfempty sugar packets, and Styrofoam cups. The coffee is syrupy like used motor oil. I pour a cup, grab a gray metal folding chair leaning against the wall and join the circle. The chairperson, a short, pudgy woman, asks if anyone would care to share a story. Rickys hand shoots up in eager excitement. Ricky is an emaciated addict with deep lines that cut into his face. His skin hangs loosely on his frame and his fingertips are stained with a yellow tint. He stands at his seat, says hes an alcoholic and drug addict, and thanks us for listening. Before Ricky found Jesus and the meetings, he delivered an adult classifieds paper. He says the company downsized and then fired him. He needed some quick cash to pay a dealer. His options were limited. He had overheard his sister brag about her daughters savings quest. Ricky did what any other respectable drunk or junky would do and walked over to his sisters house, scaled the lattice up to her daughters room, and broke the window with his fist. The glass cut deeply into his hand, severing a nerve. Blood sprayed all over the little girls carpeted floor as he crawled into the bedroom. He frantically searched, light-headed, for her small, pink piggy bank. He smashed it into pieces. Nickels, dimes, and a few quarters mixed in with the blood. Small shards of porcelain littered the carpet. He stumbled crashing into her dresser, collapsing to his 6 knees. He crawled towards the open window, blood smeared across the walls like finger paint. He threw himself violently through the windows small opening but passed out. He awoke, halfway hanging out the window, to two EMTs working frantically to save his life. An overweight sheriff read him his rights. His mother, sister, and niece screamed out in disbelief. The judge was surprisingly sympathetic. I slowly sipped my coffee, staring at the flood of teardrops streaming down the lines of Rickys face. He drools out words of regret and apology. The room is in tears. I am not crying. No one says anything. The silence is paralyzing. I want the silence to be a flood that will wash me away from here, take me anywhere, anywhere but in this circle, anywhere I dont have to look at emaciated Ricky, anywhere I dont have to pretend that I believe in God. The meeting is over. We all stand. I join hands with the two people to each side of me. To my left, a tall, bearded man, and to my right, a young red headed girl adorned with several homemade tattoos. Ricky, with tears unabashedly flowing, volunteers to lead the group in reciting the Serenity Prayer. Rickys voice merges with mine, then the others. The words echo throughout the Fellowship Hall: God grant us the serenity / to accept the things we cannot change / courage to change the things we can / and wisdom to know the difference. I set my chair back up with the others. Suddenly, as I turn around, there, in front of me, is Ricky. Without saying a word, his arms reach out and pull me in tightly. His embrace is stronger than I imagined was possible from such thin arms. I can feel his ribs pressing against my stomach as he pulls me closer. His chest heaves up and down between sobs. The tears pour onto my t-shirt and soak through to my collarbone. Jesus loves you. Jesus loves you. Jesus loves you, he whimpers. I pull away. He wipes his running eyes and nose onto his sleeve. I know, Ricky, I tell him. 7 The Things I Cant | Willitts I give him a quick side step, pulling my phone from my coat pocket as if to make a call. I keep my head down hurriedly making my way out of the room, through the old wooden doors, and down the marble stairs. The night air hits me hard. I feel beneath my arms. A fresh sweat stain extends from my armpit down my side. I am soaked. Crossing over Third Avenue, I turn onto Seventeenth Street. I make eye contact with each passing pedestrian. I want to see their faces. I want to look into their eyes. I want to forget Rickys face. I want to forget Rickys story. I want to forget Rickys tears. It is the faces that make me dread that room so much. In the faces, I see entire lifetimes of mistakes, lifetimes of hard luck and disappointments. I see divorces, break-ups, abused children, forgotten birthdays, ruined weddings. In some, I see the father or mother that drove them to it, and in others, the father and mother they drove away. I see the impossible truth of their sickness: hopelessness. The world will always be against them. I cross over Fourth Avenue and turn onto Twentieth Street. I stop in front of Kellys bar. In the faces, in the stories, in the circle, in that room, in that church, maybe, I see myself. Maybe, it is me who is afraid, maybe, it is me that needs to cry, or maybe, it is me who needs to apologize. Maybe, I need to find redemption. Maybe. Maybe I just need a drink. *** 8 All We Do is Talk | Rue Flynn Nine shots of Sailor Jerrys we toast to your music, to my writing and talk about our goals for hours hours hours Later we sleep, side-by-side, naked in the hot twilight where our bare sweat glands profuse alcohol tears Unknowingly we cry together as all we do is talk talk talk. 9 Satisfying Cut | Patience Lanier I lived a few weeks while summer turned on wide wheels, slow, fat, ripe and easy to taste. My mother taught me to seize creation; form the earth into mountains and canyons and add seeds from a paper envelope. Eat dirt! kernel, pit, heres some water too. Then Id scurry full of birth and conception to gather tree limbs my father had broken with his sawcut off arms lying in heaps. I asked my parents if they enjoyed their children. My mother smiled and gave me a full glass to irrigate my throat. Parenthood had never been rewarding for my father though he did love me; he said so as he patted a tree with a gloved hand, its leafy head lying on the ground. 10 The Daughters House | Lyndie Wood I. The girl is building a house out of clay. Its fake clay, the kind you buy at the toy store in foil packets. She has it in the primary colors and shes made dark muddy purple by mixing some blue and red. When she starts the house, its a lumpy structure, with windows that dont line up and fingerprints all over the walls. But she adds trim, curtains, shutters, and window boxes with flowers. She is a very thorough girl. She builds creatures to live in her house. They are disproportional and even lumpier than the house. Some of them have very long limbs, others very short. Some have no limbs at all. She gives them eyes and teeth and tails (for balance and combat.) At first glance, this is clearly the work of a child, something made by a creature with underdeveloped motor skills. But when you look closer, you see that house and its inhabitants are textured and precise. Shingles and muscles are outlined. Marigolds and poppies have individual petals and leaves. And youd swear that the clock in the kitchenyes, the house is fully furnishedalways tells the correct time. The girl is in the basement of her own house, where she lives with her father. He is a kind man, though serious, with an irritating ability to read faces. It has never occurred to the girl that she may have a mother. Upstairs, there is faint music and a shadow of voices. There are almost always other people in the house. Some of them are clearly friends and associates of her fathers. Others seem to be lost strangers. The girl pays little attention to them, and they pay little attention back. After finishing off her house with a chimney billowing smoke, the girl decides to venture upstairs to find her father. The girl takes the steps two at a time, even though she knows this way is both slower and harder for her. People are mingling on the first floor. There are quiet old women talking in hushed voices in the kitchen. They recognize the little girl and give her iced tea with lemon. It is too sweet. The 11 The Daughters House | Wood girl takes a few sips and dumps the rest out in a houseplant. Her father is on the third and top floor. The floor lamps around him make the edges of his silhouette glow, but the rest of him looks like it has eaten up the light and done away with it. He is deep in discussion with one of his associates. Though his shape is sharper and more defined than many of the other guests, the girl cannot tell if he is male or female. Staring, perhaps rudely, the girl notices something curious. The associate seems to have the exact opposite interaction with light than her father does. Instead of light on the edges with shadowed features, the associate seems to exude light, but the immediate surrounding area looks depleted. The girl enjoys the contrast and mingling of the lighting in the room and files it away as something to ask about when she is older. Its not that her father wont tell her now. Its that shes not sure she wants to know yet. II. The Devil watches his daughter come up the stairs. He smiles a little at the sight of her stained hands and the bits of clay under her fingernails. She looks very serious, as she always does after finishing a piece of art. He wonders why she never lets him keep anything she creates. Within a week, the clay models are in the trash with the bag knotted, and a very firm, No, Daddy. His daughter sits down patiently and the Devil turns his attention to the thing in front of him. Thing is the only appropriate word in human languageor perhaps Nothing would be more appropriate, for what is God other than a very strong idea? A self-perpetuating idea. The Devil sometimes thinks that God could believe himself out of existence, if he so desired. God and the Devil would not describe themselves as friends, but God often shows up at the Devils house to talk. Sometimes they dont talk, instead just sitting across from each other staring at the burgundy carpet. The girl regards God with a distracted nod. God opens his mouth to deliver a kind word, but only manages to exhale. He is usually quite eloquent (to say he invented eloquence is no 12 The Daughters House | Wood hyperbole), but this girl is not something God created. Hes not even sure if the Devil created her. But she is, nonetheless, the Devils loving daughter. The Devil excuses himself and goes to his daughter. He wants to hug her, but shes at the age where parental affection in public is embarrassing. She told him so, very sternly one day, in almost exactly those words. I built a house. She wipes her sticky hands on her dress. Can I see it? The Devil twirls his tail hopefully. His daughter, who does not have a tail, nods. Shes already thinking ahead, to the next house she will build, which will be better than the last one. They travel down to the basement, sneaking past the ladies in the kitchen. The Devil notices ice cubes in one of his houseplants. The basement is very dry and bare, in contrast to the warm, humid air and deep colors of the upstairs. The girls clay house is sitting on her worktable drying. Her father raises his eyebrows, impressed, as he looks at the scale patterns on the creatures. When he notices the clay clock with moving hands, he smiles. Will you do me a favor? He puts a hand on the top of her head. Yes, Daddy? She pokes at an imperfect brick on the houses doorstep. The Devil sighs. Will you build another house? A strong one, self-contained, thats not attached to anything? One that can withstand the end of an on? The girl nods. This is a challenging idea. Nearly forgetting her fathers presence, she sits in her chair and begins playing with a small leftover chuck of purple clay, squeezing it in her palm as she thinks. III. The Devil is confident. He knows that God is just about done with the game, ready to throw its cards down and move onto less complicated pursuits. God did not know what it was getting into with humans. At first, it thinks that they were masterpieces, but now its decided 13 The Daughters House | Wood theyre stunning failures. The Devil thinks theyre just stunning, with all their blundering creativity. He knows he couldnt create something like that no matter how hard he tried. When the Apocalypse comes, the universe will fold in on itself. The Devil will have no part in this. He tried to show God the value of human creativity and the unbelievable scope of human emotion, the wondrous things they can be manipulated into. Over and over, hes asked God to simply leave it to him, but dont let the myths fool you: God can hold a grudge like no other. It has not, and probably never will, forgive the Devil for testing the trueness of its omnipotence. (The Devil also has a theory that things made of matter are significantly less prone to insanity than thing made of very strong ideas.) The day of the Apocalypse smells like chlorine. Everyone instinctually knows its going to happen, but few develop the conscious knowledge. The Devil has been keeping an eye on his daughter and her new house. Shes done magnificently. Theyve yet to set foot in itthe Devil feels its better to hang around until the last minute. The girl is staring at the house. Shes not sure she made the best color choice for the doorknoborange instead of her usual yellow. She bites her lip. Upstairs in the house, the old ladies in the kitchen cant find any lemons. The vampires on the patio tap their feet restlessly, and the mice in the attic are perfectly still. They all know that this house has been good to them, and when they think about tomorrow, they become a little sad and a little cautious. The end of the world is not smooth. The Devil feels the corners of everything starting to unravel, and he hurries down to the basement. Are you ready? he asks his daughter. The girl nods and puts on her purple backpack. The Devil moves her chair away from her workbench and gets ready to step into the six-inch tall house. Wait, his daughter snaps. She looks at the house, rocking back and forth on her heels. She drops her fathers hand, grabs the house and runs to the trashcan. The Devils eyes widen as he hears the fake-clay smash. 14 The Daughters House | Wood The girl sighs. Her father always gets so sad when she throws away her projects. Im going to make a better one, she assures him, vaguely aware of the people screaming in the floors above them. There is a crumpling sound. The Devil hangs his head. 15 Calm Hands | James McDonough You find calm in the woods on a bank at dawn when the moon is still bright; Where you can see the ghost-children play pick-up sticks And then skip stones across the stream to blast the moon to pieces; Where the budding twigs hold their skins tight against the chill; Where the silhouettes of trees seem closer to each other like friends around a bonfire; Where the newborn sun blows cloud rings of silver and gold; Where the water never looks back and carries the crisp leaves down to the ravine; Where the ants leave their graves to follow the farmers path; Where the bridge creaks underneath even the most careful steps; Where the blue heron waits for his catch; Where the snakes tuck themselves under stone beds; Where the roots sleep forever while the branches stay awake; And where the wilted anthers attach themselves to your wool coat As you step through dew covered fields towards your white house on the hill. Between the bank and the hill you cross windswept pastures. You stop walking to draw in a memory of the receded landscape into your mind; The relative size of that broad expanse has changed how you feel, You think about whether or not the calm of the woods compares to the calm out here You note: How small and still the dark woods are before the breakout of life; How a ditch by your feet looks like a small road, and it is filled with ants holding scraps; How all of them, running along the sides, look like theyre in a funeral procession; How the wheelbarrow furrows that stretched up the hillside are now covered by straw; And how they seem to create laugh lines across the hills face. Halfway up the hill you eye the houses condition like a livid mother. The slatted roof is dusty yellow and the windows thin shutters hang from their hinges. This house is cold and spent like the rest of the farmland yet it still has its own spirit. It sleeps on top of the hill like a retired wrestler gaudy, gaunt, comatose The porch sticks out like propped feet; Patches of paint are curled and frayed to bits like dried skin; The boards underneath bend and warp like strained muscles; You can almost see the edges of his bones between the sunken boards; Streaks of water stains curve down his long face. 16 Finally, as you step to the covered porch, You shake your cold feet on the doorstep and Stomp them like a wild cherub. You turn around and stand by the banisters edge. A creased bed sheet hangs from a line in the yard; Like you, its stiff body resists the wind and tightens its grip. And you watch the night Angels wink while they fall. You follow their light-trails over roof and treetops. You stop to think about the distant fading stars and how This house is a small beacon on a wispy patch of frontier farmland, and While telegrams are building bridges the harvest keeps shrinking. You look down through the screened windows. Inside, On the mantelpiece, a candle preaches to empty pots and pans; Matches sit below to hear its sermon waiting to warm up; The whiskey stands next to the candle staring at the tomfoolery; A spinning loom hugs her corner of the room; A packed pipe lays sideways on the table dreaming of dinner; A note that reads To the Moon: sits next to the laymans pipe. You enter your quiet haven. It is warm; Mice scatter from the scene; The stone covered flue is caked in cobwebs; A broken chair died inside the fireplace; The newspapers sit by the familiar bed; A dishtowel someone brought drapes over the sinks edge; A ladle hangs from the countertop; The woodstove cradles an iron pot; The oven hisses and pops. You breathe in a sharp breeze coming through the door; The approaching North knocks on the windowpanes; You hang your hand like a swinging noose; the other trails behind your back. You walk over to the table and close your eyes to the opened note that explains: 17 Calm Hands | McDonough Dont frown, I am a star hanging onto the corner of your crescent brow. If you shake your fists at me in your sleep My dust will tip into your eyes at night. I have no place but here on the edge waiting To slip and fall, or to be saved by the glow of your smile. You fold the note in half again and close the door and whisper to the empty room. Nothing responds from inside this old wrestlers mind, nothing moves but a fly. The knocking and tapping outside grows louder; A train across the bank gives out two owl-like cries, You set your back against the door. The shaking floor means the wrestler is hungry, The smell of burning wood changes to oil, The laymans muddy hands carry a wooden candle-lantern up the hill. Light passes into the room as the sun begins to set, Your memory of the farmers path is blending into the woods. You feel the woods carrying your mind away just like the ants in the field with their food. You strum your fingers to a brass song that only a farmer can hear, And you put the note on top of the stove and wait. Your story will sit there with you Until you join the march. You hold a trumpet with calm hands; you are Gabriels last call. 18 Like Me | KathrynLee Williams My friend Drew introduces me to her. Three or four years back, the summer after high school, they worked together at the car wash. Her hair is brunette, cut off at the chin, the ends punkishly flipped in a U. Hi, Im Alethea, she says, her voice suave. Noticing her eyes, I wonder if they are really that angular or if its just the eyeliner making them seem that way. My torso and limbs go warm, like embers. But then I realize shes staring at me, waiting for a response. Hi, Im Jen. Jen, she hums. I like that name. Alethea smiles widely. Her incisor teeth are razor sharp, wild. Jen and Drew, this is my friend, Danny. She gestures to the girl sitting next to her on the brick stairs. Danny is petite and Asian, her hair straight and thin like paper, lips heavily glossed. She wears tiny shiny white heels, a mini skirt, and a tight white spaghetti tank. Hi Jen! Danny squeaks. By the waydont call me Danny, my name is Dan-ielle. She enunciates her name slowly, as if shes talking to a person new to English. She then frowns at Alethea, who, in response, gives her that wild grin with those crazy teeth. Danielle flips her hair behind her shoulders. I smile reassuringly. Dont worryIll call you Danielle. Drew sits on the stairs at Aletheas feet, his legs sprawled widely apart. I sit beside him, in front of Danielle. Drew and Alethea talk of the car washhow nobody continued working there for over a month. The streetlight behind us flickers and then turns on, illuminating everything in its reach. I notice that Alethea is wearing completely black attire. I try to imagine her working at the carwash with the large white tee-shirts, navy pants. I chuckle. This is impossible to imagine. But, intrigued, I let my eyes trace her, as a child would trace his favorite picture. She crosses her legs, bobs the top ankle. Her boots are knee high stilettos, shiny, like a just waxed car, reflecting slivers of light. I wonder if when walking they are silent like a cat, or loud, annoyingClickclicklike a teacher. Her dark jeans are tucked into the stilettos, 19 Like Me | Williams grasping the contours of her legs, tightly like saran wrap. Her shirt is a muscle teeblack, of course, with tiny circular pieces across the chest, silver and shining, like stars. And I notice her breaststhey are large, but round and well-formed like Something taps my shoulder, like a beak. I shift. Danielle looks at me, beaming. Jemthats your name, right? she chirps, while fumbling through her overly large white purse, extracting a large piece of pink gum. No. Its Jen. She flings her long stringy hair behind her back and tosses the gum into her mouth. Oh, okaythats what I thought. Im so bad with nameslike I can hear one, one second, and then forget a second later. I smile in response. She pops a blister size bubble with her pink gum. So how old are you? she asks in between the chewing. Twent y-one, I reply, calmly. Im twenty-one, too! she exclaims. She smiles widely. In the light I notice how heavily glossed her lips arelike they are layered with Vaseline. She pops another bubble. So, are you in school, or are you working..? I go to Traditie College. Its my senior year. Oh thats cool. Ive always gone to private schools, and so has Alethea. We go to Blanke College. She smiles, proudly. Weve been in school together since kindergarten. Blanke College. The most expensive school nearby. The Yuppie school. Danielle fits the stereotype perfectly, minus her lack of snobbiness. The cute tiny shiny white heels, cute face, cute white tight shirt. I watch Alethea bum a cigarette off Drew. From her small dark purse she 20 Like Me | Williams pulls out a shiny steel lighter. She flips the top open with the smoothness of a guy and lights the cig in record time. Drew and Alethea just sit there, silently puffing their cigarettes, as if completely drowned in the taste, the sensation of the smoke. Behind me, Danielle begins to smack the gum loudly, popping a new bubble about every five seconds. I wonder if the chewing and popping noises annoy Drew and Alethea. But Drew and Alethea remain oblivious while smoking their cigs. They watch a clan of middle school girls skip out of the movie theater and across the Downtown Mall, giggling, talking at once, arms linked. Alethea spits. The loogie is yellow from the tobacco, and it lands a couple yards away. Drew grins. Niiice. Surprised, I study her once more. Shes curvyher breasts large and well-formed, like round fruit; her hips wide. I wonder if she has any extra flub. I think of my own body, when not veiled by my shirt or tight jeans. When naked, my stomach isnt a plateau, but a small bowl. And my thighs are wide, like pancakes, jiggly like Jell-O. I wait for her to move her arms, so I can check them for flub. But she keeps them glued to her stomach, her right hand at her mouth, with the smoke. So what are your hobbies? Shes positioned away from me, facing the theater, blowing smoke into the air like ribbons. Whome? Drew asks, confused, while flicking the ash off his cig. Nonot youeveryone knows youre obsessed with cars. I was talking to Jen. She turns around and faces me. Her eyes are green and feral, like a cat. What are your hobbies? she repeats. I rub my arm, as if I there is an itch. My hobbies? 21 Like Me | Williams Yes, your hobbies. I look at her, wondering if her completely random question was some sort of joke. But those angular eyes stare back at me, unblinking. Coldness rushes through my chest and stomach and I look to the ground. WellI like art. She smiles wildly, licks her lips. Everyone likes art. Are you trying to say you create art? I frown. Yes. She stabs the cigarette butt into the ground, and leans forward, towards me. She smiles. What sort of art do you create? I mostly paintwith acrylics. What do you paint? she asks, her eyes still attached to me like a nail in wood. I rub my forearm, watch her lips instead of her eyes. Images of my art class fly through my head rapidly, like birds. Well, I really like facesand roses. Is that itjust faces and roses? I think of my diaryan inch thick unlined book full of drawings. I think of staying up late at night, lying on the floor on my stomach, furiously drawing, the only light illuminating the rooms darkness being the reading lamp. Print outs from the internet and cut-outs from clothing magazines surrounding me like a halo. Charcoal pieces placed on a napkin, a myriad of dark pens and pencils lying beside me, threatening to stain the white carpeting. But I feel Aletheas eyes nowintensewaiting for a response. Yeah, thats itjust faces and roses, I reply softly. From the corner of my eye I watch her bite her lip, her eyes tracing me from toe to head. So what are your hobbies? I ask, realizing I havent asked her any questions. 22 Like Me | Williams I like a lot of things she yawns, stretching her arms. I notice that theyre delicate yet sinewy, like curtain rods. Her eyes catch mine. They dart to my arms, and then back to my eyes. She smiles. I like dancing. Preferably to Trance, New-age or African. I dont do country or ballet. I hate ballet. Danielle pops a bubble so loudly that it seems to echo against the movie theater walls. She doesnt like my music either. Alethea laughs. Surprisingly, its a girly laugh, warm like a cashmere sweater. Were not even going to talk about your music, Dan. Danielle loudly clicks her heel against the brick. Ugh, she pouts. My name is Danielle. Drew laughs. Does Alethea annoy you, DanDan? Yes! Since I was like five. Like there was this one time Hold on, Drew interrupts. He stands up, throws his smoke to the ground, rubs it clean with the sole of his shoe. He sits back down, next to Danielle. I didnt want to speak over those two. I hear him say behind me. I wonder if I am imagining it, or did he really say those two instead of those two. No, he didnt. He couldnt have. Why would he? Soon, Drew and Danielle become completely absorbed in each others conversation. Alethea and I talk of art, dancing, music. But now, we are silent. And again, shes staring. So She pauses, licks and twists her lips into a halfway grin. So? She leans forward. I can smell her perfume. Zwarte by Homoseksuele. Shes still grinning. Are you gay? Tension rushes through my chest, limbs, like ice water from a quick faucet. 23 Like Me | Williams Again, I remember my diary pages, adorned with ink, charcoal drawings of bare women, breasts. I remember the sensation I felt when watching that HBO movie with the two lesbians making love, secretly, when the other roommate was out. I remember the time I got smashed at a party and made out with some blonde chick under the willows. My eyes are warm, insides frozen, iced over. I look at the ground. The crevice between the bricks is a clean white. But on top of the crevice is a piece of gum, soiled black, a shoe imprint covering it like paint. Areyougay? Alethea repeats, crisply enunciating her words. Her green eyes are lasers now and I have to respond. My voice comes out soft and forced, as if a parasite lives in my voice box, speaks for me. No. I shift, avoiding the laser stare. Im straight. Through strands of my hair, I watch her pupils dilate. Her green eyes are completely pitch now, like round pans. Well, I am gay. Her voice is triumphant, honestshe is the one who is speaking. A sharp pain pierces my chest, like a cold blade. I look at the gum in the crevice. I remember reading somewhere that gum has the capability to stay stuck in the same place for over a hundred years. But it looks so misplaced, with the dark black over the white. I tuck my hair behind my ear and glance at Alethea. Her arms are crossed, lips pursed. She looks at me momentarily, but turns away. I look at the ground. Theres no gum. Instead, theres a tiny shiny white heeled shoe covering the crevice. Alethealook at the time! Danielle exclaims. She shoves her silver watch in front of Aletheas face. Its eight thirty! 24 Like Me | Williams Yeahso? We were supposed to be at Kyles apartment likeover forty minutes ago! She shrieks, stamps her heel. Click! Oh. Aletheas eyes are still, like water, puffy around the edges. She stands up. I stand up too. My head reaches her nose. I can still smell the Zwarte. I stand close, our arms almost touching. I realize Drew is beside Danielle. He looks at Alethea, then me, his eyes granite question marks. Danielle flashes Drew and I a glossy smile. Im sorry we have to leave so quicklyit was so nice to meet youDrew, she hugs him, lightly, with one arm, and it was nice to meet you too, Jem. Flicking us a wave, she pulls Alethea away. Danielles tiny shiny white heels echo against the walk, like a woodpeckerClickclick. Clickclick. She walks with her shoulders high, allowing the tight white shirt to flaunt her bony blades. And Alethea walks with the grace of a black feline, silently treading beside her. And as I watch that thin, curvy silhouette get smaller and smaller and smaller, Drew stares at me, not saying a word. My eyes go hot and on my lips I taste wet salt. But I ignore it, let my hair fall before my face and sit back down, on the brick. *** 25 Suicide Watch on the Locked Ward | Susan Horne When asked to think of work once done My mind went back almost twenty years. When, barely nineteen, I sat on the cold, hard floor. Of the bathroom with no doors on the stalls. And I waited for hours on suicide watch As my legs went numb, Counting the tiles of the puke-green walls My mind wandering aimlessly, Listening to the rain Falling steadily on the tin roof. The patients came and went. Some yelling or laughing, but mostly Shuffling like zombies in shoes without laces. And they paid me no heed, for which I was glad. As I fingered the cord of the alarm Hung round my neck and inside my clothes. Not the smartest invention, I thought to myself In a place where shoelaces are banned. And I watched as the patients came and went, During suicide watch on Chestnut ward. I walked home that night through the rain, And jumped in the shower. But couldnt wash away the smell of the place: Hospital cleaner mixed with human excrement. The institution lingered in my hair And followed me to bed. 26 Pilgrims | Patience Lanier They come to mea priest of the laundromatseeking absolution, shoving quarters in my hand. As if forgiveness is that easy! They think I can swallow the sins of a day, two days, a week; lipstick smears, mustard, cigarette stink, some other mans cologne. I listen to their confessions, load after load, as they sit there thumbing their magazines like a rosary. Some stains remain; I am no savior just a cleric of streams spinning holy water from rusty pipes. 27 When I Was Sixteen | Emily Beker My name is Jenny Parsons and when I was sixteen I killed three people with a black magic marker. This is not a joke; I swear to tell you the truth. You have to understand that this is a small communitynothing much happens here. We talk about the weather and some of us are still fighting the Civil War. Old men sit in plastic chairs on front porches and spit tobacco and look into the far distance. Sure, there are a few out-of-towners, but they are greeted largely with suspicion. This is a small community, a place where the legion halls annual catfish supper is a much-awaited event. And nearly everyone goes to church. And it is because of this countys small-time attitude that my story happened. When I was sixteen, I lived with my parents on over a hundred acres which I largely managed. Sometimes I supervised our two groundskeepers - one was prone to take long afternoon naps - and sometimes worked with them in the gardens and scrubby forest. My parents were hardly ever around, and even when they were I was left mostly to my own devices. Despite all the work I did, I was often bored. I suppose it was that boredom which made me wander into the Mt. Caramel Church cemetery on a May afternoon in 2005 with my drawing pad and a box of sketching supplies. I suppose it was thanks to that boredom that I killed three people. I had to sketch a landscape for art class at school, and I sat cross-legged near the Turner stone. The wind was blowing, faint strains of bluegrass came to me from across the street, and I had the perfect view of an old farmhouse with the great blue mountains behind. The drawing was going well. The sun was a great bright orb and I stood and stretched, knowing I had to head home soon. Just behind me was the stone for Mary Elizabeth Turner, born May 25, 1939, and not dead yet. You have to understand that this is a small community, a community where lots of people order stones from Martin Memorials along Route 692 well before they die. It is, in fact, a source 28 of pride for each of them to point to their reserved plot and the stone with grass growing all around and say Im prepared. Ill be ready for when the good lord takes me. To some people, Im sure, this would seem macabre, but to this community it was just a matter of reserving prime real estate - not waiting til after theyd passed on and letting the children stick them somewhere in the back, out of the way and easy to forget about. Mary Elizabeth Turner, about to turn 66, ran Turners General Store with her husband Wade. Just off Main Street, the store brooded well back from the brick-faced pharmacy, merchandise spilling off the sway-backed front porch and onto the asphalt. The wood-burning stove just to the left of the front door was something of a fire hazard - what with the bundles of yellowed newspapers all around - but nobody ever complained to the fire marshal. He could often be found smoking a sweat-stained pipe along with Wade, watching the cars on Main Street with a contentedly glassy stare. Turners sold everything, though little was actually sold. Mary attended every auction in the county and bought every odd lot for 50 cents a box. Huffman and Sons, auctioneers, loved her - she helped set up when one of the boys was sick and she took all the odd stuff off their hands. She was something of a standing joke for some of us, and we watched her pursed lips, tight permed-gray curls, and tank-like body with amusement as she sorted canned goods from some time in the late 60s. I had a black felt tipped marker in my hand and on some adolescent whim I found myself crouched before the smooth-surfaced gray stone writing May 15, 2005 in the blank space. Just an instant, nine neat black characters, and my life was changed. * * * The obituary said she died at 4:30 in the afternoon, in her rocking chair, knitting on her lap. Survived by two fine sons and husband Wade of 41 years. She would have been 66 in ten 29 When I Was Sixteen | Beker days. She was, by all accounts, in excellent health. Some said at the funeral later that week that she was sprightly as a teenager. Not quite, I thought from the outskirts of the crowd around the graveside, but she sure did get around. I waited till dark that evening, waited till the casket was buried, the red clay soil tamped, grass seed sprinkled, fake flowers placed. I waited till the bluegrass music was extinguished to creep like a thief into the cemetery. I picked my way between the stones and finally stopped before the fresh-dug earth of Mary Elizabeth Turners graveborn May 25, 1939. Kneeling, I saw that the space for her death-date was blank. No trace of black ink, I thought with relief. Martin Memorials would send a man over to carve the date tomorrow, probably. I had decided last night, lying sleepless in bed, that while this had to be a really weird coincidence it would be better if nobody noticed that inked-in date. I had tried to check on the stone the morning of the funeral, but the pastor waved and with that I had to turn back, just hoping that nobody noticed the written-in date. But I suppose that the rain of two nights ago must have washed away the pigment. Feeling prickles of fear at my neck - it was dark and I was in the middle of a graveyard, after allI rose and slunk home. Gently shutting the screen door behind me so that it would not squeal in protest, I returned home and to bed. Back to schoolwork, housework, outdoor work. It was no more than two weeks later that I was again relaxing on the sunny knoll which the Mt. Caramel Church crowned. My back was against the blank side of an old marble marker, one of the oldest in the cemetery. This time I was reading John Grishams The Client, cheering on the twelve-year-old who knows a deadly secret, shrinking in fear of the mob boss who wants him dead. I did have work to do at home, but it was a beautiful, crisp summer day and I had hiked my floral skirt up my thighs to get some sun on my still winter-pale legs. Checking the screen of my cell phone in the side pocket of my purse, I saw that it was almost 7:00 pm, and setting down the book I decided to go home. Just in front of me, the words 30 When I Was Sixteen | Beker only a few feet away, was the stone of Burry Crowell of Burrys Used Cars, born March 29, 1939 and definitely not dead. I planned way ahead, hed tell everyone who asked, spreading his hands, permanently grease-stained to the elbows, wide as though inviting a comment. Burrys Used Cars was a sort of final resting place for ancient Buicks, battered Ford pickups, and along one wall were a dozen cracked windshields. By now I had decided that Mary Turners death on the evening of May 15 was a surreal coincidence, but nothing more than that. Still, there is something alluring about power, about harnessing the supernatural. Maybe that was what bent me to my knees, groping for a magic marker in my purses side pocket and then fast in an eye blink writing June 3, 2005 - tomorrows date. I thought I could always come back tomorrow and wash it off; I thought to justify the unjustifiable as I got up and straightened my skirt, brushing off a stem of grass. It was perverse adolescence which made me stay away from the graveyard all day. I was driving through the center of town on my way to some food shopping on June 3, 2005 with the stereo blasting when I saw the cars all around Burrys cinderblock bunker of a business. These were cars with seats, hubcaps, windshields, paintand emergency flashers. They were there because Burry Crowell had just been found slumped under an 86 mint green Toyota wagon, with a cup of cold coffee near his right hand. Dead. My skin went cold with panic, with fear of being found out. The words in my mind were like headlinesMurderer, Cold-blooded Murderer, Cold-blooded Murderer is 16-Year-Old Student who Says it was an Accident, Teenage Murderer Sentenced to 30 Years Without Possibility of Paroleit all came through my head in an instant and then I kept on driving, keeping the speedometer below 25 all through town. That night I sat upright in bed, thinking a hundred illogical thoughts, fiddling with the lace bedspread as I watched the moon rise out my open window. The power almost thrilled me the ability to determine life and death, the ability to control the world in my handslike God, I almost thought and then buried the idea somewhere deep in my mind. But it was a terrible power, this killing of people who had no reason to die other than that I wrote a date on their gravestone. 31 When I Was Sixteen | Beker My mind drew back at this, doubting. Maybe it was all a terrible accident? This is the 21st century, I told myself. This is an age of logicbut, the question remained, can this be a coincidence? I fell asleep after a time like this, my troubled mind still trying to understand something which cannot be understood. * * * Ann Louise Henshaw was a thin-bodied, thin-lipped, narrow-minded woman. She wore pink rouge on her sunken cheeks and her face was deeply lined, but not from laughter. She was the postmistress of one of the four one-room rural post offices left from a time when people arrived on horseback. Ann Louise Henshaw brooded like a buzzard, cramped behind her counter, officiously stamping envelopes. When I was eight, she had yelled at me for coming onto her lawn, and later that year at the street festival shed grabbed my arm and dragged me back to my parents because I had wandered near the country band in which her son played. I remember her sharply curved fingernails digging into my skin. The gossip was that she read everyones mail. I dont think it surprised anyone. And this was such a small community that nobody ever felt more than mild annoyancethe notion that it was a federal offense was never considered. The fact was that there were many envelopes with curiously ragged flaps, and others were lifted and picked at on the corners, as if in a failed to open them. Her husband, Jacob Henshaw, had died years before and two daughters had moved out somewhere in the Midwest where nobody had heard from them in a decade or more. And the son was a no-good whose wife had left him a year ago. Ann Louise was not well liked, but she was tolerated in the way only a fellow old-timer could fathom. On the morning of August 12, 2005, when Id walked down our quarter-mile long driveway to get the mail, I found a little green official slip claiming that the end of our driveway 32 When I Was Sixteen | Beker was muddy and unsafe, since the mail carrier, Tom Yowell, was too low in the ditch to reach the box. The slip was signed with Anna Louises perfect script. I returned home, dragged the phone book from under a stack of bills and looked up Toms number. When I called, his wife answered and I finally convinced her to let me talk to him. I explained about the slip and he admitted mentioning it to Ann Louise, but assured me that it was no issue, hed been planning to stop by and mention it to meor maybe just call James at the Highway Department and ask for some loose gravel. Really, it wasnt any problem. I thanked him for his time, wished him a good afternoon. Setting the phone in its bracket with some unnecessary clatter, I collected keys, cell phone, license and that officious green slip. Striding out the door to the car, I slipped some letters of my own to mail into my purse and readied myself to complain to meddling Ann Louise. It was just after 2:00 that afternoon as I pulled into the post offices too-small lot, jammed the gear selector into park and jumped out. Burrys Used Cars across the street was still up for sale, I noted without emotion before going in. Of course there was a line and I waited impatiently, clicking the heel of my boot against the cabinetry, as a little old lady counted out dollar bills for sheets of stamps. By the time I set down the letters on the counter in front of Ann Louise, I was annoyed. I dont remember exactly what I said as she stamped my envelopes, but I tried, nicely at first, to explain that Id talked to Tom Yowell, who said it wasnt a big issue. I told her that Id take care of it soon, but I didnt understand why shed gotten involved. Her lips pursed tight, she glared at me and said, practically spitting, I dont like your attitude. Ive never liked your attitude. That postal box is a hazard. I told her, sarcastically Im afraid, to have a good evening and stormed out the door. It was almost 2:30 and as I headed home through golden-lit auburn hayfields and tall green corn, my mind spiraled of its own accord to Mary Elizabeth Turner and Burry Crowell. Id tried to forget it all but death, murder, is not something I could easily forget. It was nothing but hotheaded, depraved adolescence that made me pull into the church driveway, parking in the back by the education building where the windows hung with childrens 33 When I Was Sixteen | Beker decorations. Swinging purse to my shoulder, I walked amongst the graves until I found the Henshaws stone. Jacob O. Henshaw, born December 5, 1928, died June 11, 1989. Ann Louise Henshaw, born February 15, 1931, currently presiding over the post office. It was with clenched teeth that I crouched before the stone and with quick violent strokes wrote August 12, 2005. And with that, as I capped the marker and slid it into my jeans pocket, I had killed three people. * * * I have no pride in this, for how can there be pride in the supernatural, in something so inconceivably out of our control? Yet I feel no sadness either. I never felt sadness, even when I snuck into the cemetery the evening before Ann Henshaws funeral, and, wetting a finger, rubbed out the date, knowing that she was dead and cold in Praddys Funeral Home. I still think of that summer sometimes, but I have never told anybody but you. Jenny Parsons 34 Where Im From | Jamell Maxey I am from hand-me-downs, From Jordans and Timberlands, I am from the drug users in the street, I am from the pine trees, the dandelions, From the nosey people, the know-it-alls, I am from cookouts and watermelon, From pretty boys and the Boatwrights, I am from the gamblers and the fighters, From the money-makers and the go-getters, I am from the drug dealers, the felons, From the place where cops would ride by but never stop, I am from the basketball courts and card parties, From the big family reunions, I am from the heart attack my grandpa had, From the high blood pressure, the cancer, I am from the dinners every Sunday, I am from the church choir, From the young outlaws, I am from the hood, From staying out late all night trying to make a dollar, I am from 15, From the guns and knives, I am from the love givers, the picture takers, And the people that will give anyone a helping hand. 35 a willing vessel | Andrew Dugan i. if you goan keep knockin down my doors darling let me advise you this: i aint one for maudlin acts, and to sympathy im amiss. but you goan come round my place and piss and moan and bitch? they a hellhound on my trail and i got a grave to pitch. and if you goan crack my windows in twain honey i hope you do it quick: i been tryin for nigh five years and all you been is sick. i been splittin rails and drivin nails and all these posh white folk, and still i came no closer to what i already know. but dont break your nails rippin up my porch baby cuz it aint all i got to give: i stole myself an inkpen hon but poetry aint but lovers purgative. so i grew for you a mustache and wore for you a beret. o i learned that velvet french but i couldnt put no words to page. ii. my bridal dress: wet from waistdown and all the cashmere hearts of it purled with passion and pain now followed the river. and the river followed its course elsewhere. i drowned: your raw hands pressed against the subtle bends of a neck you once said was that of a mallard duck. 36 i drowned: you spoke and signed in numbers and thought yourself a machine. preprogrammed. equipped. ill- you motioned to me like one would a ghost or a dog or a slave. walked me thru an escher maze of metaphor and clich. iii. when televisions had no color and summers bore no heat, we strolled through fields of music notes and plucked out three new beats. on top this hill, i rolled my thumbs across your pliant flesh. you stood staticstill and handfilled the glen between your breasts. and i, staid as i am, waited only so long for you to run. and i have waited again, counting thirtysomething years one-by-one. iv. motherfucker i been sick for centuries and what you done for me? you been robbin pens and talkin french and hittin jails and cities. so ill break your house and deconstruct my hands and draw your panes in quarters, all until you sit with me and genuflect: we need spontaneity. 37 Modesty | Joy Meyer The moist air hung around the city, enclosing it in a damp dome of spring. Sounds of the city crushed against the soft air, the residue of which filtered slowly into my room and wafted around me in the moonlight. All around me the noise of the city tapped the walls of my townhouse like a soft rain. Each night I closed my eyes and listened to the murmurs and the rush of the city. These sounds so distant yet so close feel, each night, as though they will crush me. I listen to this city, a city that builds itself each night anew and is renewed each morning. The Paris of the Pacific, the city is sometimes called. San Francisco, where all dreams are destined to come true. Springtime weather changed dramatically, sunny then fog, sunny then fog. I didnt sleep at night, but I try to. When the trying didnt work, I gave in to pretending to sleep. This pretending was done each night as I lay in bed. Lying in bed, I strainws to hear the cable car in the distance making its dinosaur climb to the top of Knob Hill. The brownstone on the hill is perfect, the perfect symbol of what will be our new life together in San Francisco, my new wife and I. The bank happily lent me the money to buy the house because I was their newest gold and silver banker. The Bank of New York was eager to get their hands on a portion of the gold and silver being discovered around the bay. All I needed now was her safe arrival by train. The next morning, feeling nearly rested, I rushed to get the rest of the things prepared for her arrival. I rushed out of the house and nearly slipped. I was so happy, I felt nearly drunk. I laughed with my teeth showing towards the sun as I smiled into the sky. I had come here to be happy, to escape the bitter sadness of betrayal and rejection in New York. Wrapped in shawls warmed by sunlight, the people of the city milled through the streets that morning and I followed the hazy mass of walkers. I was headed to the train station to collect my bride. It was springtime and the city was seeping. The clouds were low that day, and hung like lazy weather balloons that levitate close to the ground, not landing, not soaring. Clouds disguised as fog. Clouds slipped and sped by rooftops. Clouds brushed past the flags and the palm trees with the grace and ease of a pickpocket on a trolley. Clouds dripped down the sides of building like condensation, like ice cream sneaks down the cone, to the thumb then wrist. The wind 38 picked up the dust from the alleys creating eddies on the boarded sidewalks. I walked past the snake oil posters on the wooden walls of the sloppy wooden houses that line the streets. It was springtime and the city was seeping. Palm trees drooped in the rising heat of the day and the heat beaded the faces of strangers selling apricots and fish. One hour before my bride would reach me by train, I hung in the balance of space and time, just waiting. Is it possible to sustain happiness? I will always remember the day as bright and fantastic. I will remember a day bright enough for the shadows of birds to drag the ground. Flocks of pigeons charged from rooftop to rooftop shaking the earth with their wings. I will always remember that day, how I looked up through the phalanx of the birds shadows, my eyes straining past my fingers and smiled. Their shadows hold me to that moment, ghost shadows frozen in my memory. Sixteenth Street erupted around me. Bums milled around as though on a track, crossing streets, pacing walkways, like nervous people pace rooms. Silver miners winked at each other with crooked grins, faces full of greed, then friendship, then greed again. The Chinese laundry was pouring a fresh smelling steam into the sky. There was something else to this day, I felt like something was being decided, the sky held a certain tension. There was something hanging in the air, or maybe just underfoot, a sort of rumbling. I arrived at the station and stood by a pole and leaned against it. With my mind racing, I waded around in my thoughts, in the moment and got stuck staring into the palms of an old man. I stared and stared at his wrinkled graying hands with pink undersides, the color of pale roses, dewy palms filled with wisdom. My fingers flexed and I felt myself reach out to touch his hand, I caught myself and stopped. No one noticed and I shifted my gaze to his well-cared for nails. I thought of my grandfathers hands. My heart went wild, beating and flapping, and for fifteen minutes I felt all of the three thousands miles from my home. I felt a million miles from anything safe or familiar as the train pulled into the station. I watched every person depart the train with a growing sense of dread and glee. It was clearly her when I saw her. Her modesty was an insane mask, a Morris code face with two dots for eyes and a dash for a mouth. She was so lovely with her pointed purple mouth and 39 Modesty | Meyer eyelashes damp with sleeplessness. She had apparently remembered to pack her rouge for the eight-week journey by train. Her hair was a black tangle of weighty curls and ostrich feathers pinned into place, all of it was scattered by trying to sleep on train. Her jacket was a warm brown and her ankle flashed under her skirt as she stepped from the train. She had a very large crimson flower pinned over the breast of her jacket. It was a red slash of a flower, which was to be our sign that she had arrived. I felt at once unworthy. I am the residue and the fallout of a life carefully planned. I have only the silt left of a life where the tide had gone out. I have lived just below the surface of other peoples dreams for my life. I held out, I didnt marry. I had fancied myself a free man. The truth is that I was waiting, for the right moment, for the right women, for the right city. But none of these factors ever added up. I traded a rebellious passionate heart for the assuredness of a predictable life of mediocrity. I lived constantly reassuring myself that I would be ready when the time came. But the time didnt come so easily. My last lover, Eleanor the actress, left me nine years ago in New York. She was the ship leaving the sinking rat. She left while I was at work, at the bank. I came home to the emptied flat. She left most of the things because they were mine but gutted entire sections of the rooms. Two shelves of books were missing sporadically like teeth knocked out of a face. Stockings were dashed about the room in an obvious hurry to pack, in a hurry to get away from me. I looked longingly at the circles left on the dresser where her perfumes had been only hours before. I touched one damp ring then put my fingertips to my nose. I can almost see her when I smell the lily of the valley. I can see her dark hair damp with snow, we are walking back from the theatre and she is laughing. Were we ever that happy? From this room [what room?] I can see all the way down the narrow hallway to the kitchen where the red curtain blew like an abandoned tri-color. I walked to the kitchen mesmerized by the red and the breeze. I am a bull headed man walking towards the red curtain in the kitchen, walking towards it like I have no other choice. I sat down in the kitchen on a wing back chair, a chair that means nothing now. I sat in the kitchen and watched the red curtain blow in the slight 40 Modesty | Meyer breeze from the window. I watched it for hours. There was no way to bring her back. I began to laugh and then I began to cry. I began to wear the red curtain as a scarf. It would unwind as I walked through the streets of New York and blow behind me in the early morning light. I would wind it back around me again and steady my walk. I felt farther each day from the people of this world and closer to some unseen cliff. I forbade anyone from saying her name and slowly began to liquidate my assets. I sold my small flat to a sagging family and accepted the banks job opportunity in the west in the up and coming city San Francisco. No one envied the journey by train that I would make. But I grew a little bit brighter. It was in the shuffle of packing my carnival glass pieces and delicate porcelain plates that I spotted the advertisement in the paper. Modest and clean women. Reasonable and attractive wives for sale. Below the caption bore a small list of details and a number. I raced to the pub to use the pay telephone. In what seemed to be an eternity I had the operator connect me. I hoped the company wouldnt announce its purpose while the three of us were all on the phone together. The operators hear too much and there is always the awkwardness of too many people on the line. She has rare heart condition, the dry voice on the phone explained. A quiet and desperate life has isolated and enclosed her heart. What do you mean? the telephones black horn was chilly against my ear. Her heart has turned to marble, said the voice distantly as though located far away by a cliff. It was as if the voice were competing with the sound of waves crashing against a stone cliff in the distance. Is that even possible? I asked. Apparently so croaked the voice. Is it chilly to the touch? We cant touch her heart, Sir, said the voice sternly now and beginning to lose patience. Is she very lovely? 41 Modesty | Meyer I wired the enormous fee to the company and instantly worried that I may never see my bride. We arranged for her to arrive shortly after my move to the new city. She would arrive by train with all the papers we needed. I had only to sign them and it would be official and contracted. Three trains a day came into the city over the Sierra Nevada Mountains, as I sleeplessly awaited my marble-hearted wife. We would be inseparable and very, very happy. She arrived with the heat of steam from the smoke stack. She carried only a worn leather suitcase wrapped in belts with brass buckles for strength. The buckles reflected the light from the sun and the fragments of light disappeared in the dulling steam. The dust eddied and circled the trains giant steal wheels. The ground seemed to tremble, seemed to undulate, below my feet as she put down her bag. A coil of hair broke loose and dangled across her right eyebrow and trembled slightly on her nose. I longed to reach over and push the hair aside. Hello, she whispered, showing perfect alabaster teeth. Were those marble? Will you have me in marriage? I tried to joke with her, show her I was nothing to be afraid of. I already have. The smile broke out again. Are you ready to go home? I reached for her suitcase. She nodded and another curl escaped. I picked up her suitcase and offered her my arm. The weight of this moment and the salt of her fingertips grazed my wrist, and as she took my arm I was frightened. We walked the one hundred and thirty-seven steps to the cable car. The car then chugged its way to the top of knob hill where we now lived together. Is it possible now to be happy? I tried not to scream and I smiled at her as the trolley chugged on. At home to break the silence I turned on the phonograph, wound it up and played a scratchy wax favorite of mine. An endless waltz played out of the horn and the yellowed electric lights of the house rose as the sun set outside. I stared at her. Her skin glowed yellow against the lights. I pulled out my tobacco and began to roll a cigarette. Do you smoke? I asked her and she seemed frightened by the question. Come on now, I know women smoke. So do you smoke? Not waiting for her reply I lit the match. 42 Modesty | Meyer She extended her fingers, fingers that looked pale and luminous in the light, towards the burning cigarette. Sure. When I was younger, she began and laughed snorting some smoke through her nose, then the rest through her mouth. When I was much younger, I wanted to be the emperor of some distant land. Not any real place but a magical distant land. She took another drag and recalled her favorite story. I wanted dragons at my disposal, beautiful maidens to dress me, and an endless garden of flowers. Mostly I just wanted those great green beasts as friends, as allies. She laughed again, throatier this time. Only fools dream this way my mother told me. We spoke all night skimming the surface of our lives, taking only the parts that seemed to illuminate us and make us seem supernatural. We talked only of the things that made us interesting and worthy of dragons. Eventually, I showed my bride to her room. I sat on the chaise and watched her as she drifted into sleep. I lay down next to her and stared at her eyelids until I found my own sleep. In the morning, I lay in the bed trying to locate where I was before I would open my eyes. So much had changed I was afraid all that had just happened had not actually happened. I was afraid that I had actually finally fallen asleep and dreamt the whole night. I had seen entire days slip away and cease to exist. Entire parts of my life before had slipped away and become some obscure memory. Parts of my life didnt even seem to have actually occurred and I was afraid the night before was one of those parts. I reached over and felt her face, her jaw. It felt porous and rough like the fine porcelain I brought with me. My heart seized in fear. I felt farther up her face, and to her temples close to her hairline; it was still warm and made of skin. I opened my eyes. I leaned over to kiss her and realized her mouth was frozen. Her lips slightly parted and had turned to smooth pink marble. The skin below her mouth was starting to harden into a porous crust of marble. Her eyes held mine and we waited. I am afraid, I whispered into the crack of her mouth. She put her fingers to my lips to silence me. She got out of bed slowly. I watched her limbs sway beneath her slip and her shoulder 43 Modesty | Meyer blades twitched like wings as she pulled something out of her bag. She pulled out a leather bound journal and took a quill from the stand. She paused at the desk to write something and walked slowly back to the bed. I watched her for what seemed like an endless waltz back to me. I took out the outstretched journal from her hands and read, Do not be afraid. She climbed back into bed and I held her as the entire room began to sway and shake. Buildings across the street crumbled and a portion of our room fell away. *** 44 Sole Food | Patience Lanier Walking, feet falling apart, toes rolling, pushing reaching for the buried soil. Small, hungry shovels tasting the ground, filling my legs with earth. The marrow chokes on bits of sidewalk, scrapes of tar and glass from a bottle that was kissed, sucked dry, bled. Men sweep dirt off dirt giving powdered filth a breath to rise. Breathe the dust, foot, lung, bone, inhale the streets detritus. 45 The River | James McDonough In these Scandinavian woods, dawn broke the soft summer air and raised a hazy morning; It ran up to the rivers end and ate the deep-blue waterfall. I agreed to go to that place where the ancient pines bend close to the coast; Where the rune stones were still young to compare and the burial pits still fresh; Where the birdsong never ends and the skies glow like a newly-risen child. When you heard the day break you woke up With a righteous mind. You strapped a golden shield to your back; It became an emblem of your just cause. You tied your heart around it to secure your ship, and You laughed at the beat of the distant waves. I know you thought it was worth taking the risk To avoid the slippery cracks as long as you could Before you dove headfirst without looking, And forded the surging river. I thought I was the anchor of your ship, But I became a flying gull instead. These waters are no more territory And I am honestly afraid of nothing Besides myself. There are no challenges left, Save the ones of my own minds making. I could be selfish like the river, But today my bare back is like an open sail I watch the sun dance on a tightrope, and I gauge the distance and watch the knots unfurl. Time moves faster as we grow; There is a bend in the course Ahead a short-cut to mend The hours lost in transience. You cannot escape the rivers end its churning waves. You throw a cry at its expectant mouth; Its frothed lips taste your ankles and thighs, chest and eyes. You bend like a bow to its willful hands; 46 It holds you tightly around the waist Guiding your body downstream. It knows how far you have left As you wade across its currents And you catch and release your breaths One at a time Anticipating the other side. You cannot escape the oncoming rumble. Your voice decreases and moves, In one sound second, from firm to flaccid. The silence below its surface caresses you to sleep. The shadows behind your eyes disappear When you realize that theres nobody near. The inevitability of it seems cursed, yet Blessed By beauty. You are part of the river now. If you can hold on for so long, Youd be bitter alone I know It could last an eternity. Just follow the waters edge And let the fall come slow. You said I would find you there I knew you lived Among the slow laughter and slight applause of the forest canopy; Among the hills, the banks, the rivers; Among the mossy undergrowth and the blackcurrant shrubs. But I found you lying on the shore by the delta instead. I used my feathers edge to sweep the sand off your skin. I watched the penitent tide lower your feet, in reverence I placed beads of dew in rows along your naked spine. I saw them tremble as you sighed, and I imagined They looked like the tears in the corners of your eyes The kind that stream inward and never leave. 47 They Serve Budweiser in Heaven | KathrynLee Williams Listen, on earth trillions of people pray a day while in heaven, god lounges languorously on his cloud, one ankle over the other in an X, chugging a Budweiser (inebriation like a shield), wearing shades so pitch and thick, earbuds so loud with bass the combination like a wall utterly impervious to his peoples trillions of cries of succor. 48 Rewind | Zoe Gordon The Devil was helping Meena build a time machine. He liked to play with time. He loved the way time felt in the human form. A tangible strain across the skin. He loved moving the hands of the clock backwards and forwards, in spirals and half-circles. The Devil showed up on a Tuesday. Meena heard the doorbell ring and thought that maybe someone had ordered pizza, but when she opened the door there he was on the front porch. Meena knew him instantly. She must have been expecting him. They were old friends; they had known each other forever. Since childhood perhaps, before her memory began. She couldnt remember how they met, but it didnt cross her mind. Meena asked for the time machine for her birthday. When she blew out the candles that was her wish. Of course it made sense that the Devil was here to help her build it. They set up shop in Meenas basement. She shared the house with roommates, but no one ever went down there. Maybe they had forgotten that there was a basement, or maybe they didnt use it because it hadnt been divided up among them like the rest of the house; this is your shelf in the refrigerator, your half of the couch. The Devil spread his plans across the old carpeting. They were drawn on tracing paper that was turning brown with age, and covered in illegible scribbles. He beckoned Meena closer, and they wrinkled their noses at the mildew in the air. First, said the Devil, you need to know that when building a time machine it is best to use forgotten or unwanted things. Most often these items already know how to move through the past. We are going to need quite a few pieces. The Devil squinted back down at his plans, Well need something to hold down the weight of time. Meena nodded, writing this down on the first page of her notebook, right underneath the heading TIME MACHINE, which she had written all in caps, underlined a few times, and then doodled around with hearts and spirals. Then we are going to need some pieces of the past. Meena wrote this down as well. 49 Rewind | Gordon Well need someone elses secrets, and of course a time piece. His fingers traced the patterns of his plans as he spoke. There should be something that can move backwards or forwards, and of course we are going to need some duct tape. Meenas list grew. When the Devil was finished with his list he sent Meena to fetch the items. Meena went the flea market, and puzzled over her own handwriting. The list was like a scavenger hunt, and she had a hard time trying to figure out what the Devil meant. A piece of time, someone elses secrets? She wandered down the rows of junk, hoping that something would click. There were heaps of forgotten Beanie Babies, Barbie dolls, and childrens clothes. There were collectable plates, decorated with McDonalds characters or the face of Elvis, even one of the Virgin Mary, but none of this seemed to fit. When she finally returned hours later she had an old weight bench covered in cracked, black vinyl, several rusted weights, a dusty penny collection with every penny in order of year starting in 1818 and ending in 1981, andof courseduct tape, piled in the back of her car. The Devil was pleased. There was the part to weigh down time, some pieces of the past, and the duct tape that he needed. Together they carried the bench down the stairs to the basement. Meena was surprised at how light it was, but it was likely that the Devil was lifting more than his share. The Devil arranged the prizes across the basement floor, and sent Meena off again to search for more items. While she was gone he began the spells. He started with the weight bench, which would be the framework of the machine. With a piece of chalk he inscribed the rusted legs with runes and symbols, letting his mind wander over their meanings. On the rusty underside of the weight bench the Devil drew a large clock face inscribed with roman numerals. This was not a power symbol, but an elegant rendition of time. Time was one of the devices God thought up, to give the world a sense of order. He didnt have to abide by it, but he watched as the humans moved through it. They strained against it, like walking through 50 Rewind | Gordon quicksand, their skin sagging in the effort. It was perhaps Gods own hypocrisy regarding the physical laws, which made the Devil enjoy tampering with time so much. He shaded the clock face exquisitely, and if you didnt know that it was chalk you might believe that you could pick the clock up out of the bench, and hold it in your hands. * * * Meena returned again at dusk. She brought with her an ancient tape recorder, about the size of a hardcover novel with the buttons on the front, and several David Bowie tapes. She found them after much searching, in the back room of a thrift store called Happy Monday. Perfect, the Devil said, something that moves backwards and forwards. It was the mechanism that he needed; the piece that could pull things into reverse, and then propel them forward again. Meena had understood brilliantly. He took the tape recorder and the cassettes from her and laid them beside the bench where they could wait for installation. Meena felt as though the options of the thrift stores had been exhausted. She began to search the house. She snuck past her roommates watching football in the living room, and crept through their rooms and bathrooms. She picked up some purple Mardi-Gras beads, an old shaving kit shoved far back underneath the bathroom sink, several Polaroids that had developed poorly and only showed blurred shapes, and a pair of pink plastic sunglasses. Meena took her stolen prizes, and went into her own room. None of her things seemed like they would help the time machine, but she decided to look anyway. From under the bed she retrieved the shoebox that she kept her precious things in. She pulled off the lid and looked through the mismatched pile of memories. There was a photo of Meena covered in mud, and smiling happily. It was taken when Meena was fourteen, and her parents sent her to a summer camp in North Carolina. It was called Adventure Camp, and involved lots of camping and canoeing through warm lakes. It was the first time that she had been on an airplane by herself. She was practically shaking as she passed through the security gates. She had put a change of clothes and a toothbrush in her carry on bag because she was terrified that her luggage would be left at the airport. When the plane lifted off the ground she had felt it in the pit of her stomach. 51 Rewind | Gordon She still remembered this trip vividly, and it often felt to her as though it was both the first and the last time she had an adventure and it was a contrived one at that. Meena put the photo aside and pulled out a birthday card with a picture of Alice and the Queen of Hearts. Meena Weve had such a wonderful year together... The card began. Meena couldnt remember the last time she had spoken to the best friend who had written this card. She put it back, and carried the box and the roommates things back to the Devil. * Days moved quickly. The Devil didnt have to sleep. He worked through the night, keeping Meena awake with the clatter of construction. The first night was fine, but by the third Meena, who was not used to the lack of sleep, became a little spacey. The Devil had to repeat himself often, it took her several minutes to remember that by hand me the time piece, the Devil really meant hand me the clock with all the little birds on it, that chirps every hour with a different birdsong, and does not help Meena fall asleep in the slightest. By daylight Meena was dreaming on her feet. The entire world had taken on a glittery quality. Meena was supposed to be looking for more items. She couldnt think in the stuffy halls of the thrift store anymore, so she went driving instead. The sky was blue, the pavement still wet from the nights rain, and Meena was making figure eights around the blocks of neighborhoods she barely knew. She drove another circle, and realized that she seemed to have found her way out of the residential part of town. The houses had been replaced with high-rises. She pulled over at the side entrance of one of the office buildings, and got out into the glistening morning. She had never been dumpster diving before, but she had a feeling that it might pay off. She lifted the lid, and braced herself for the smell. It actually wasnt terrible, most of the trash seemed to be paper and old office supplies. She pulled the top bag out. It was full but very light: full of paper shreddings. Other peoples secrets. Meena ached with excitement, as she brought them back to the car and headed home to show the Devil. When the Devil took the garbage bag and dumped the paper shreddings on the basement floor he was surprised. It had been a long time since he had worked with material like this. Meena 52 Rewind | Gordon was a clever one. Usually when he sent people off to get secrets they came back with the obvious. He was grotesquely sick of working with diaries. They didnt realize that peoples best secrets were usually the ones they were trying to get rid of. Meenas strips of paper would work superbly. Meena seemed to love the paper as well. The soft pile reminded her of when she was a child, and used to jump and burrow in the leaf pile every fall. She couldnt resist falling into the shreddings, and lying back in them like a beanbag chair. Why do you want this time machine Meena? Because I want to go backwards. Backwards to what? To all of the things I could have done with my life. I feel like so much time was wasted. I kept taking the easy path, or the safe path. My life is mediocre now because of some of those choices. Nothing bad ever happened to me, but nothing that great happened either. My life has been predictable, I want to have stories. Meena was still thinking of those falls in the leaf pile. Her childhood had been an idyllic one. Theres still time for that in the natural progression of things. You could find an adventure now if you wanted to. I know, but so much time was wasted. I dont really know where to start without going backwards. She was thinking now of people who she didnt know anymore. There are things I would like to do differently. Do you ever think about time outside of your lifetime? If we build this time machine there is a lot more that you could see. You could find the beginning, or fast forward to the end. I like my lifetime, I dont think I want to leave it, what if I couldnt get back? The Devil laughed, he could smell Meenas fear. Time does and does not exist simultaneously. You can decide how much or little of time you want to abide by. The Devil knew this, but Meena did not. It was possible that the machine bit of time travel was entirely unnecessary. But then again, maybe it was. Maybe it was the tool that people like Meena needed. 53 Rewind | Gordon When you live with time things have to take place. They cannot just be, they have a date. When you live without time the rules dont make sense, but you know this and that makes sense in itself. The Devil had lived without time for so long, that although he liked to play with time, he always grew bored with it eventually. You could visit the future. The Devil said. I wouldnt know anyone there. Do you like anyone here? Meena was silent. * With nothing else to fetch, Meena had little to do. The Devil asked her to do small tasks like wrapping the ski poles in wire but mostly he preferred to work alone. Meena would watch him from her nest of secrets, dosing off intermittently to be reawakened by the clatter of his work. Meena dreamed of her past. She went there often in her head. She had a tendency to be a bit anachronistic; she listened to songs for their level of nostalgia, and not their musical prowess, she rarely read the news, and she decorated her walls with old photographs. The Devil knew all of this about her. He dipped into her dreams as he watched her sleep, infusing his work with them. Meena wiggled in her pile of paper shreddings, she might have been asleep. Or maybe she was dreaming. Do you love me? she asked. Of course I do, said the Devil, I love all of my human children. Meena sighed, and curled further into her nest of paper. The Devil especially loved the weak; they gave him hope. While Meena slept the Devil might have stayed beside her and worked on their time machine, or he might have gone forwards or backwards, or he might have gone back to hell, or maybe he did all of these things. When Meena awoke he was standing over her with his hands on his hips. It wont be long now. * 54 Rewind | Gordon The Devil was working on securing the tape recorder to the front of the weight bench. The machine looked like Frankenstein, sewn together from the junk graveyard. The cracked vinyl was the cockpit, the weights were on the floor, like the tracks of a tank. The ski poles, wrapped in wire, stuck up from either side, and the bird clock was strapped to the back. The entire machine was stuck together with duck tape, wire, and aluminum foil, and covered in the Devils symbols. The Devil smoothed down one last piece of duct tape, and stood back to admire his work. Its finished. Meena was wide eyed. She stood up, strips of paper were caught in her hair. Are you ready? She nodded. Okay, carefully climb into the seat. Meena lifted her legs high to avoid the wires and duct tape, and slid onto the vinyl. The Devil nodded. She reached up, and grabbed onto the handles of the ski poles. Great, now Im going to start the machine, and after that youre not going to be able to move okay? Meena nodded, still looking shell-shocked. The Devil reached down, and pushed the PLAY button on the tape recorder. And we could be heroes David Bowie sang. The chalk designs began to glow. The birds chirped. Forever and ever Are you ready? Yes The Devil pushed REWIND. *** 55 The 14th Morning | Kathryn Ziegler Fathers flipping, screws up his face. Pessimism can kill a man. Joints swollen, worn out from stress of sitting. Too still. Its a crime. Mans got a face full of tears. Blood shot, eye drops missing their mark. Eyelashes flip. Face messed up; just tryin to smoke the damn joint. Watching stove grease flip and slip off the grill. Baby girls still classified missing. Flip Out. Cant face It. Papa knows shes Gone. 56 57 The Fall Line: the boundary separating the hard metamorphic rocks of the Appalchian Piedmont to the west from the sedimentary rocks of the coastal plain in Virginia. 58  ...