Honorable Mention - Campbell University

the lyricist
spring 2003
volume XXXVII
Cover art: “Degas’s Dance Class” by Michelle Greene 2003, background: Bankers
Trust Building Construction
Photographs 1910-1911, Photograph courtesy of Weiskopf and Pickworth LLP.
Interior art: “Sketches in Progress” by Michelle Greene 2003
Magazine concept by The Lyricist Staff and Michelle Greene
The Lyricist: An annual literary magazine. The subscription rate is $3.00 (free to
Campbell students).
Printed by Barefoot Press, Raleigh NC.
Send subscription requests, manuscripts, and correspondence to: The Lyricist,
Department of English, Campbell University, Buies Creek, NC 27506.
lyricist@mailcenter.campbell.edu

THE LYRICIST CONTEST WINNERS
Statewide Poetry Contest
Winner
“Here in My Garden”- Colleen H. Furr
Honorable Mention
“This Piece of Wood on My Shelf”- Doris Blough
“What We Can and Cannot Do, Or Be”- Sandra Eisdafer
Statewide Poetry Judge
David Tillman
Student Poetry Contest
Winner
“St. John of the Cross Gives a Sermon”- Nick Tillman
Honorable Mention
“An Evening with Annapolis”- Daniel Parsons
“Wood Would be a Finer Flesh”- Nick Tillman
“Father James”- Daniel Parsons
Student Poetry Judge
Neil Myers
Student Prose Contest
Winner
“Shelman’s Pier”- Jamie Fisher
Student Prose Judge
Jason Davis
This is the thirty-seventh edition of The Lyricist and the twenty-third year of The Lyricist’s Statewide Poetry Contest. The contest is open to all residents of
North Carolina. A prize of $100 is awarded to the winner of the poetry contest. Other poems of special merit are recognized by Honorable Mention. For
further details, send inquiries to The Lyricist, English Department, Campbell University, Buies Creek, NC 27506 (lyricist@mailcenter.campbell.edu).
Campbell University students compete in a separate contest that awards cash prizes to winners in poetry and prose.
Artists are encouraged to submit photographically reproducible work to The Lyricist.
ii

Editor’s Note
Art, in its various forms, is the stamp of the imago dei nature in humanity. Yet, it neither happens
ex nihilo nor spontaneous in us. A work of human creation, or art, is a progression, a movement,
with many stages of revision and crafting. As T.S. Eliot asserted, a poem, like the greater unity of all
poetry, moves forever onward in endless revision; poetry is never completed, never perfected. The writing
of a poem consists in creating, destroying, and recreating, in planning and execution. And, as poetry,
the visual arts move through various stages of sketches, models, preliminary painting, and an equally
everlasting corrective process. This eternal process is the nature of the artist’s both blessed and
cursed life.
The construction scene set forth on the cover of the magazine illustrates how human endeavors
follow the mortal rule of progress. By blending the beginning stages of the construction process with
Michelle Greene’s Degas’s Dance Class, the evolution of artistic work takes the foreground. We sought
to assert visually that art is always in construction and the artifices of poetry and the visual arts are
never finished.
This idea of art seemed especially pertinent this year because, just as all the artistic productions
in this magazine are the result of a development of idea and form, so also is the staff of the magazine in
the process of development. Many members of the staff joined this year, and many are just beginning
their artistic maturity. Therefore, the magazine exhibits a year’s worth of growth in the creative minds
of the artistic body of The Lyricist as well as the other artists who allowed us to publish their works in
progress.
Acknowledgements
The Lyricist staff would like to thank first and foremost Michelle Greene for her artistic contributions.
Thank you for your hard work and for lending us your images for our metaphors. To our contest
judges, thank you for making the hard decisions without the concrete to help you. Our unfailing thanks
go to Mrs. Judy Robbins because of whom we can do all things. Lastly, allow us to thank Dr. Vaughan,
our (com)mentor, for revealing to us the Great Iamb.
— Nick Tillman
The Lyricist Staff
Nick Tillman, Editor
Brandon Capps
Heather Cox
Bernie Desrosiers
Michelle Dills
Miriam Easterling
Lisa Haddock
Dawn Henderson
Thomas Holbrook
James Hussey
Jared James
Daniel Parsons
Tasha Romero
Joshua Shelton
Jennifer Sylvester
Jessica Vaughan
Andrew Younger
Dr. Frank A. Vaughan, Faculty Advisor
iii

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Heidi Arnold
The Blue Grasses of Home ..................27
Doris Blough
This Piece of Wood on My Shelf ..........20
Jamie Bunn
Bright colored leaves fall ....................27
Violets blooming ..................................39
Bears take a long nap ..........................50
The sun shines so bright......................51
Anne Campanella
The Second Winter After My
Father’s Death......................................55
Heather Cox
Uncertain..............................................43
Ben Currin
The Existential Epistle ........................35
Matt Doyle
Mr. Cardinal..........................................23
Miriam Easterling
Patient..................................................13
Denouement ........................................17
Hallowed ..............................................21
Another Season ....................................24
Occupied ..............................................43
Sandra Eisdafer
Against the Rational ............................35
What We Can and Cannot Do, Or Be....44
Jamie Fisher
Love......................................................49
Shelman’s Pier ....................................56
Colleen H. Furr
Here in My Garden ................................1
Lisa Haddock
Quasi-ku ..............................................53
Dawn Henderson
Flash of Souls ......................................11
Unbound Chains ..................................43
Thomas Holbrook
A Life on the Sea ..................................2
The Whole Hog ....................................36
The Smallest of Places ........................40
Tentacle Mask......................................53
Anthony Hopkins
Struggles................................................2
Jared James
The Exigence for Evolution..................17
Ein Junge Adreissert Sein Spielzing ....35
Phyllis Jarvinen
River Day................................................8
Nancy King
Every Time the Door is Opened............55
Genevieve Kissack
Verdict..................................................12
Our Last Summer ................................27
iv

Bonnie Michael
The Risk ..............................................13
G.S. Morris
The Real Presence ................................7
Musical Time........................................19
The Ride Home ....................................51
The Miraculous Parchment..................62
James Meadows
October ................................................27
Neil Myers
Foolscape..............................................11
Bourbon St. Symphony ........................19
Chanteur ..............................................23
Orange Moonshine................................29
Carolina Winter Memory ......................50
Daniel Parsons
An Evening With Annapolis ................10
Father James ........................................52
Jaime Peterson
Green oceans churn foam ......................2
Cowboy rests at dusk ..........................32
The Beginnings of Whatever is to Be ..46
Wilting rose petals ..............................49
Crisp snowy mountains ........................51
Chris Quinn
De(life)ath ............................................12
Blood of Innocence ..............................34
Tasha Romero
Granny’s Story......................................30
Tracy Ray
Slow Rain ..............................................9
A Ghost in the Darkness ......................33
Tidings of Comfort and Joy ..................45
Matthew Sganga
Ants......................................................54
Scott Shamblee
descending brightness..........................33
Joshua Shelton
Anarchy ................................................18
Black and White ..................................53
Maureen A. Sherbondy
Grave Rubbings ....................................12
Ben Snyder
My Faith ..............................................21
Spontaneity ..........................................28
Adolescence of a Calvinistic God ........34
Strawberry Magdalene ........................49
Angela Sox
Gardening ............................................39
Nick Tillman
Very Present ..........................................4
Alarm Clocks are a Product
of the Fall ............................................14
St. John of the Cross Gives a Sermon ..22
Tranquility/Post-tranquility..................29
Wood Would be a Finer Flesh ..............38
Joyful Mystery #2 ................................45
The Rime of a Devout and Holy Friar ..53
The Consecration of the Poetic Life ....62
Charles Toptin
Mayre’s Height ....................................54
Stella Whitlock
Barn Swallows ......................................3
v

WINNER,
STATEWIDE POETRY COMPETITION
Here in My Garden
A spider sated
with its latest meal
dozes in a web,
butterfly dust
still clinging
to its legs.
And I sit wondering
what dust marks me.
Colleen H. Furr
1

A Life on the Sea
Aye! what a life, of men on the sea,
Blinding salt spray, and wind blowing free.
Come with me lads, and we will explore,
Days of excitement, and whaling lore.
Every boy dreams of adventure and thrills,
Far away places and eerie chills.
Giant of the deep, she’s second to none,
Hear me now, boys, while I tell you of one.
I was barely a man, just eighteen years old,
Just pondering life and what it would hold.
Green ocean churns foam,
king fishers swoop, sucking shrimp,
Worn pier sways in wind.
Jamie Peterson
Knocked from my thoughts by a shipmate’s howl,
“Look there, men, off the starboard bow!”
“May God be with us,” said under our breath,
“Now lower the sight, and aim for the death.”
“Oh God be with us!” our words still fresh,
Prayers quickly answered, as steel meets flesh.
“Quickly now, boys, we’re bringin’ her in!”
Ropes stretch taut, and nerves wear thin.
Sweat and blood, spilled on the decks,
Ten-thousand waves, ten-thousand wrecks.
Under then over, we lunge to and fro’,
“Victory, come soon or she’ll pull us below!”
Struggles
Set sail on sea swells
that break back beneath the sand.
Risk to sink or swim.
Anthony Hopkins
Waves subside, there is calm and quiet,
Xebec go home, we have won the great fight.
Yaw and pitch, as the rum flows free,
Zenith, my friend, is a life on the sea!
Thomas Holbrook
2

Barn Swallows
A family of barn swallows lived
under the eaves in a far corner
of our front porch. We welcomed
them—good neighbors, we thought,
eat flying insects. At dusk we
watched them swoop, glide—dark
forked-tailed silhouettes against the sky,
ridding our yard of flies and mosquitoes.
They were good neighbors, in their deepbrown,
almost-black nest, a basket
of mud, string, twigs, lined with fluffy
white feathers. First one creamy,
brown-speckled egg, then two, three.
One parent always sat there, the other
kept guard beside it. Then one, two,
three naked babies opened their beaks
wide when we climbed on the porch rail
for a peek. Busy parents swooped
for insects, made countless trips back
to the hungry trio, dived at all cats
or humans who dared approach our porch.
Whit and I retreated to the garage entrance,
but once they flew into the face of our baby
grandson, made him cry. Eviction seemed
the only answer. As soon as the fledglings
moved out on their own, we tore down
the nest, scrubbed the rails and concrete
porch floor with Clorox.
Next spring we watched that corner
ledge, armed with a broom to tear down
the first hints of nesting. The swallows
must have been watching us, too—they
made no attempt to rebuild. We felt
relieved. Then one day we glimpsed
a familiar fork-tailed silhouette flash
across the sky, traced its path to our front
porch. There we saw it—nestled
under eaves in the opposite porch corner—
a perfect mud-and-twig basket.
We couldn’t destroy such careful
construction, knowing the painstaking
effort it took to carry each twig, mud
morsel, bit of string in their beaks,
to weave it all together and smooth
it into a home. We watched again—first
one small brown-speckled egg, then two,
then three. One parent sat on the nest,
the other stood guard.
At dusk one evening, we heard loud
squabbles, ran out to see the problem,
caught a glimpse of a dark shadow
flying away, one swallow on the nest.
Martial difficulties An intruder
We couldn’t tell. Next morning we found
two broken speckled shells on the hard
cement beneath the nest. A peek inside
revealed signs of struggle, a disarray
of white-feather lining, no sign of the last
egg—or watchful parent.
Stella Whitlock
3

Very Present
The pickup came roaring down
the dirt road leading to the field where
Michael stood stacking bales of hay
into semi-neat pyramids. He had on
gloves to protect his hands from the
rough twine that held the bales together.
His hat had a very pronounced
sweat ring around the sides; he had
worn the same hat to work everyday
for the last three years. In the back
pocket of his jeans there was a handkerchief
he used to wipe away the
sweat when the hat had been completely
saturated.
The day was calm and a gentle
breeze blew in, rustling the leaves of
the trees lining the edges of the pasture.
The sun shone a mellow gold in
the bright blue sky. The vivid green of
the grassy fields stood out distinctly
and beautifully against the quiet background
of the clear sky.
“Hey, Mike…” Tony yelled from
the truck, “…someone was looking for
you at the Roadhouse. Said he was a
reporter for some newspaper back up
in Connecticut.”
“Did he say what he wanted”
“Sure didn’t. I didn’t really care
to ask.”
“Well, I guess he will find his
way down here soon. Better hurry up
so I can clean up a bit before that happens.
Not exactly dressed properly for
a newspaper interview,” Mike chuckled.
“If I see him coming this way, I will
catch him to give you enough time to
get pretty for the pencil,” Tony replied
with the usual mischievous gleam in
his eye.
“Ahh…you’re such a pal. Now
shut up so I can get to work.”
Tony went driving backwards
down the dirt road, blindly, finding his
way by instinct. Tony always made the
same vain attempt, but the fencepost
at the end of the road had proven to be
an impossible obstacle.
Michael quickly stacked the
remaining bales into some sort of
organized pile, and quickly ran across
the field to the bunkhouse to grab a
shower just in case the reporter made
his way down the small dirt trail and
found himself at the farm. “This is
strange though, “ he said to himself at
not much more than a mumble, “I
haven’t spoken to anyone back home
since I came down to West Babylon.”
After he had showered and put
on some fresh clothes, he stepped out
onto the porch of the bunkhouse and
felt that the breeze had picked up
noticeably. The tops of the trees
swayed with every gust of the wind,
producing a slight roar as it made its
way through the leaves. The sun
seemed less mellow now too. It beat
down with a more oppressive heat than
should be expected at four in the afternoon.
Things were not so calm now.
Michael’s thoughts returned to his
home and his family. His sister had
called a few times since he had left,
but she really didn’t talk about anything.
She just wanted to know how
he had been doing and the general sort
of catching up chatter. “What would a
reporter from Connecticut want with a
farm hand who hasn’t the faintest clue
what has happened in the past three
years” he questioned himself repeatedly,
quickly answering himself with a
general, “I don’t know.” His eyes
watered a bit from the breeze. No one
came.
He went the main house for dinner
with the Jackson’s. They always invited
him in for dinner mainly because
4

they liked to hear him say Grace. He
always indulged them in order not to
seem ungrateful.
“You always pray so beautifully,” Mrs.
Jackson said after the general clamor
that accompanies the “Amen” at a dinner
table had settled down.
“Well, I appreciate you saying that
Mrs. Jackson. I am not much for praying
but I have heard a few good ones.
I just try to remember those as best I
can,” Michael replied.
“Can you pass the biscuits” Mr.
Jackson interrupted. That was his
usual method of getting his wife to
quit badgering Michael and let him
rest. “How did things go today They
didn’t fall apart without me did they”
“Someone stole all the cattle while I
was in the bunkhouse sleeping.”
Michael and Mr. Jackson had a humorous
sort of relationship that fell somewhere
between that of father-and-son,
and brothers. The Jackson’s were a
good sort of people. “No, really, everything
was fine. We moved the herd
into the second pasture, and then
worked on the haystacks for the rest
of the day.”
“Sounds good. Did Molly go into the
pasture ok”
“Better than most. I guess her calf
should be coming along soon.”
“That seems about right. We’ll take a
look at her tomorrow.” Mr. Jackson
turned his attention to his dinner and
left Michael to his.
After dinner, Michael went back to the
bunkhouse and sat down on the bed in
the corner to read a book. He was
looking through the pages, focusing on
a point behind the book that seemed to
be eluding him. He wrinkled his forehead
and became absorbed in chasing
after this thought. A sudden knock at
the door aroused him from his meditation.
He quickly got up to answer it
hoping that nothing was wrong. A
man in a black suit stood at the door.
He had on shoes that were shiny in
some places, but other spots were covered
in dust from the walk down from
the main house to Michael’s quarters.
“I don’t mean to bother you, Mr.
Adams, but I am a reporter from
Beacon Falls,” the stranger began.
“I’ve been told that you were
around looking for me. I can’t imagine
why I could interest you though. I
haven’t heard anything from Beacon
Falls for the last three years.”
“Well, actually, the story I am
working on happened three years ago.
I’m covering the arson of St. Jude’s
Cathedral. I was told you might could
help me out because you were a seminarian
there when it was burned.”
“Come inside and have a seat,”
Michael said, his voice breaking a little
as he did.
“I don’t know exactly where I
should start. I guess my first question
is how did you feel when you discovered
the fire,” the stranger seemed a
little tentative in his questioning.
“To be honest, I haven’t given it
much thought,” Michael replied wringing
his hands together. “I don’t
remember very much about that
night.” He began bouncing his right
leg and staring up at the corner above
the reporter’s head.
The flames reached high into the night
sky. He remembered that. He recalled
the nearly hellish glow that emanated
from them, filling the blackness with
the hideous orange sparks that is the
clear sign of wood burning. The memory
of the broken rose window and the
flames poking their way out had actually
haunted his dreams every night
for the past three years. The reporter
5

continued his questions.
“Well, let me ask… why did you leave
the seminary I was told you left town
the day after the fire, and didn’t contact
anyone.”
“There was really no connection
between the two events,” Michael
automatically replied. He was still
recalling all the visions of that night.
He saw with horrible vividness the
burnt embers on the high altar, the
charred remains of the tabernacle, and
his heart seized. He closed his eyes
tightly and grabbed his chest.
“Are you alright Mr. Adams” the
reporter asked concernedly.
“I’m fine,” Michael said reassuringly.
“I saw things in a new light that
night. The fire destroyed a building,
and that was it. I left the novitiate
because my heart wasn’t in it.” The
image of the blackened altar still
clung harshly to the inside of his eyes.
“It seemed that things weren’t what
they had been. You wouldn’t understand
it.”
“So the fire did have something to do
with you leaving the seminary”
“I couldn’t believe that anyone could
set fire to God’s house. I couldn’t
believe a church would burn. Not
what was inside of it anyway, and not
in an arson.” Michael had trouble
forming his words. “I can’t really tell
you too much more. I am sorry.”
“That is fine,” the reporter said. “My
idea was to get a personal reaction to
this fire. They are rebuilding the
chapel, so I am writing a commemorative
article.”
“That is good they are rebuilding it. I
am sorry that I couldn’t be more help,”
Michael said as he opened the
bunkhouse door.
“I thank you for allowing me your time,”
the reporter quickly said as he left.
Michael sat back down on the bed.
His thoughts were spinning. The
church burned. He left. He had not
been back. He hadn’t attended Mass
in three years. It seemed fake. It was
fake. “No body, no blood, no soul, no
divinity,” Michael found himself saying.
“It never happened. He would
have protected it.” He fell back onto
his bed. His mind continued reeling as
he fell asleep.
He awoke feeling entirely fatigued.
The sun just started peeking over the
horizon. His back ached; his wrists
hurt; his whole body felt pressed down
by some invisible weight. He slunk
towards the shower hoping that would
revive him and it did a bit. The
thoughts of last night hung in his mind
like the smell of smoke lingered on the
burnt frame of St. Jude’s. He dressed
slowly and made his way out to the
pasture where he met Mr. Jackson.
They didn’t talk; they just worked,
getting the tools out of the barn at the
far left of the field.
“Would you like some coffee Michael”
Mr. Jackson asked, breaking the
silence.
“That would be nice. Thank you”
Michael politely replied.
Mr. Jackson took the truck and drove
back up to the main house. Michael
sat on a bench by the barn and looked
at the dew glistening on the grass.
He kept thinking about the conversation
with the reporter last night and
remembered the thoughts that had
flown through his mind. He spoke a
little under his breath. He stood up
and paced a bit, muttering to himself
and kicking at the grass. The dew
soaked his leather boots. He looked up
to see the bright red-orange sun suspended
as in a large ostensorium created
by two tall pines at the other end
6

of the pasture. The light seemed to
burn its way in him. The thoughts of
last night were muted; his mind was
settled. He felt a familiar tremble in
his knees and the first two fingers of
his right hand began, by a power of
their own, their well-remembered passage
at the middle of his forehead.
Nick Tillman
The Real Presence
Substance is the tricky part;
there are laws, yes,
but lower-case law is only man’s,
and the upper-case we have gradually
eliminated from the language.
Our pages today are too small for it.
So the laws that govern substance
are only willing, not able, at best:
overworked, underpaid, and tired,
they govern only so far as they see,
and omni-ness is heard-of,
but mostly only dreamed.
Among the things we know are
like begets like and nothing comes of nothing,
so we build telescopes in hopes
that we may see through time and glimpse
the Great Exception, when nothing begat something.
Eternity, after all, is hard to swallow.
G. S. Morris
7

River Day
We carry our rafts into the steep gorge hidden by trees
Lining the river, some half submerged. Leaves float
Down around us from watery cobalt blue skies and
Rustle and crunch on the walk to the put in.
Rich soil is soft underfoot.
Shimmering, translucent green water flows over bright mossy
Rocks and round river stones, smoothed by flowing water,
Each other, and time.
The river’s familiar features are old friends.
Boulders as big as a house, ledges, eddies.
We slip into the current and
Hop a ride on a wave train.
Water gurgles, flows, pours over ledges, then crashes
Back on itself in a hole’s white effervescent vortex
Downstream of an invisible rock ledge.
In the wide slide down the river’s bed, current
Splashes, babbling over and
Around each rock and swirls
In the eddy’s whirlpool.
My paddle dips, plunges, then whispers
As it recovers, and water dribbles
Back into the stream.
A fresh breeze picks up clean cologne
That splashes behind ears and on wrists. The sun-warmed
Rubber smell of the raft wafts by mixed with a
Damp life jacket’s mustiness
Revived by sweat and the river.
Salt dries on my lips
But a cold splash with an earthy aftertaste
Freshens my mouth.
The conditioned fear response above the Falls,
Revives thoughts of the morning constitutional
As we scout our run.
Cold spray dribbles and drips down the warm spot
In the middle of my back as we
Pull, bounce, and slide down the falls.
My life jacket is a firm pressure
On my chest and a tight cinch around my waist.
The paddle shaft is weighty in my hands as the current
Pulls against the wide blade and a
Rapid turn from brisk current
8

Delivers us
Into slack eddy water below the Falls.
We rest, tired arms and shoulders a satisfying tension.
I hold the paddle firmly in the current as
Old friends of the river work together to
Pell out into the flow, and
Float downstream
Toward the takeout
Together again, today.
Phyllis Jarvinen
Slow Rain
Waiting patiently
On the edge of a green leaf
Stalling, falling, drip.
Tracy Ray
9

HONORABLE MENTION
STUDENT POETRY CONTEST
An Evening with Annapolis
Walking out with dappled starlight dingys
Crab cakes and starched whites,
Captains of Industry with silicon wives,
Dancing through plashy waterways
To the tune of a thousand taps.
White caps and white wash clapboard,
Sails, sales, tales and talks
The docks sway, sway the
Docks sway walking starlight on dappled dinghys.
Daniel Parsons
10

Flash of Souls
Every possible spot of wall space is covered.
But as you see, not to the point of being tacky.
Won't you notice how symmetrical and coordinated they are
One out of focus, I must rework it.
Design and showmanship are hard to learn I soon discovered.
Pictures of lawyers and teachers, the prominent people.
In many you'll see me shaking their hand
While others we are in a warm embrace.
The preacher stands by me in this one
After I donated the steeple.
Opportunities are everywhere, though I'm picky indeed.
I took the ones of the charity ball in downtown.
Notice how I was able to get all the socialists inside.
Outside was a mess.
When going downtown, my friend do take heed.
I shine the glass weekly, but more recently by the day.
Come to my living room, you must see them and stay.
Dawn Henderson
Foolscape
tall gray buildings wandering through the waves
of fools
in the city streets
circle of living and dying
daily
repeats
pilgrims
at the crosswalk.
Neil Myers
11

De(life)ath
The tree leaves were green
Springtime is the birth of much
Love, life, joy, and more.
Verdict
Think of nothing
but wind, sun,
raindrops on lotus leaves.
How to disclose a ladybug
crawling over age spots
on my ringless hand.
Watch three Canada geese,
who mated for life,
fly solo,
resigned to sentence
of solitude.
Is the breeze
setting two wine glasses
trembling
Lipstick traces on one,
telling as blood
at crime scenes.
And sounds of thunder
Not thunder at all,
But the dead pounding
gavels of harsh demands
from the grave.
Genevieve Kissack
Near the hot springs, a
Celestial robe was found
And stolen away.
Maiden in the spring
Went looking for her garments,
Instead found a man.
Man and woman wed.
A child was the end result
Seeded in the womb.
Through secrets revealed,
The man had lost his life to
The holy maiden.
Grave Rubbings
Paper taped to old broken stone,
Smith and Jones, buried
bones. I rub pastels
against blank sheets,
trying to raise up more
than letters and dates.
Ear against stone I listen for
that last breath.
Chris Quinn
A name transfers
stone to paper, dates
of birth and death,
marking what once was.
Wanting a voice to whisper
in my ears
all those secrets
long buried, forgotten.
Maureen A. Sherbondy
12

The Risk
was always there
but I didn’t think
about it.
Patient
It’s shy daybreak in my dim, sterile room,
When they proceed in to poke, goad and loom.
Medics pace between curtains, shafts of light
Through slit blinds fall on sleek forms in their flight.
An aide flips some irrelevant news on,
As to drown out their medical jargon.
Curt hellos are dropped immediately;
They attend to their brusque craft vacantly.
I strain for strokes, soft words to assuage pain,
While slick broth roughly flows through fatigued veins.
Atlas’ weight comes to lie broad upon me.
As I drift off, they stride out silently.
Miriam Easterling
I was young
and there was
the honeysuckle.
I knew
about insects
in its blossoms
but in one gulp
I sucked a flower,
stood blinking
at the sun
felt only sweetness
in my throat.
Bonnie Michael
13

Alarm Clocks are a Product of the Fall
Evan quickly threw the switch of the
clock to the off position, forgetting the
dreams that had been occupying his mind
just a few minutes earlier, and leapt from
the bed that was centered on the long wall
of the room sticking out into the floor like
Florida into the seas of the hardwood
floors. After stumbling over a pair of
slacks on the floor by the bed, he snatched
a towel from the closet, climbed into the
shower, and scrubbed silently at his slightly
clammy skin.
The pale bedroom opened up at the
dark wood door opposite the desk that was
situated across from the left side of the
bed. The desk was covered in forms from
last night’s business. The door opened to a
long empty hallway that was lit on the left
by the windows of the living room and
kitchen. At the other end was the large,
heavy front door.
The first arched passage on the left
opened to the living room. The once beige
paint on the walls had turned to a dingy
yellow-gray because Evan insisted on smoking
while he watched the news every night.
“It helps me to remember I am not going to
have to be around this for too long” he justified
in his flat, serious tone. On the
smoke-stained walls were numerous pictures
of the family. Not his of course, they
never believed in family portraits. The TV
sat along the left wall and beside it, a plain
bookcase held the different trinkets, chosen
and arranged to produce a nearly rustic
feel, as rustic as one can get when you can
only shop in fine boutiques. The black
leather couch and matching chairs were
placed around the TV so that one’s back
always faced the kitchen to the right.
The kitchen, except for a few things,
was nearly hospital white. The floor was
basic black and white checkered linoleum
in large tiles. It didn’t go well with the old
cherry hardwood floors of the other rooms.
The perfectly white counter top wrapped
around from left to right. It ended at the
fridge and to the left of it was the stove. A
black and white rooster cookie jar, one of
the few decorative things in the kitchen,
sat to the left of the stove on the counter.
A light muslin curtain surrounded the window
over the sink along the left wall. It
had little red apples with green leaves
embroidered along the edges of it. The
apple in the center had a bite taken out of
it. Also, there was a small thermometer in
the lower right corner of the window that
had a heart in scarlet stained glass on the
left. There was a small chip missing in the
heart where Evan had dropped it while
moving in. When the sink was full of dishwater,
the sunlight used to come through
the heart and color the suds a deep crimson
with a small ray of pale light shining
through the hole. The sun hadn’t shone for
weeks.
Evan came out of the bathroom
freshly bathed and cleanly shaven, with a
small trickle of blood coming from a nick
below his right jaw-line. He went to the
closet across from the bed, reached in, and
pulled out a well-bleached white shirt that
had been meticulously starched and ironed.
It was his last one. He swore at a piece of
lint on the sleeve and brushed it off, then
gently slid on his shirt. He looked threatening
in his flat black suit, black hair
trimmed and eyes whose pupils are indistinguishable
from the nearly black iris surrounding
it. He picked up his briefcase,
looked around the living room and, without
thinking, fingered the ring on his left hand.
He quickly reached into his pocket, grabbed
his lighter, and then forcefully struck it to
light a cigarette. Evan walked briskly out
the door in more of a rush than usual
because he had to make a stop by the cor-
14

ner market for his breakfast.
As he began his short walk to the
West 53rd tunnel, the world seemed one big
mass of gray. Large clouds of dingy gray
exhaust shrouded even the passing cars. “I
am going to smell like gas all day because
of these jack-asses”. He ranted about
everything from how his shirts picked up
every tinge of yellow in the air to the way
the rain made him feel like he needed
another shower. “It isn’t supposed to be
mud until it hits the ground”. He stopped
when he got to the Bagel Barge a couple of
blocks away from the station.
With a cup of black Colombian coffee
in one hand and a bear claw he munched in
the other, Evan entered the tunnel to take
the train to work. He finished his breakfast
and threw his napkin on the ground.
Quickly, he lit a cigarette and blew the
smoke directly in front of him forming a
smoke screen that made the crowd in front
of him nearly invisible. He waited for the
train taking long, deep draws on the cigarette,
slowly exhaling the smoke. He
always did this when he got impatient. The
subway finally arrived and he walked
aboard and found himself a seat. He sat
there sipping his coffee, wishing the woman
standing in front of him would get her shopping
bag out of his face. He wanted another
cigarette. He resisted but only until the
train stopped and he stepped out onto the
platform. He smoked a lot when he walked
in the city and always blew the smoke
directly in front of him, especially in
crowds.
He walked into the building of the
Jameson & Hardy. He had worked there for
the past four years as a corporate attorney
specializing in the facilitation of hostile
takeovers. He passed by Janine’s desk, his
secretary. “Any calls that should really
concern me,” he asked her flatly.
“How are things with Jessica”
“Well, her mom has her convinced
that I don’t pay enough attention to her. I
guess killing two marriages of her own
wasn’t good enough for her. ”
“Well, no calls yet, but I will buzz
you if any come.”
“You sound like doing your job is
somehow a favor.”
He strutted into his office and closed
the door behind him. On his desk was a
note from Mr. Hardy saying that he wanted
to speak to him as soon as he came in.
This brought a small grin to his face. He
dialed Janine’s extension quickly punching
the keys with determined strokes.
“Janine, call Stephanie and let her
know that I am on my way to speak to Mr.
Hardy. It looks like we may be moving up
to the 63rd.”
“Yes sir,” Janine says bitterly.
Evan looked at the window. He
always kept the blinds shut, but it didn’t
particularly matter because the windows
always seemed too dirty to look out of anyway.
“Things aren’t this way on the 63rd.
The window washers do a good job up there
because even the secretaries have enough
power to fire them,” he said slightly under
his breath. He had been waiting on this
move since his second year with the firm.
“I deserved this on the out-set. I guess I’ve
paid my dues now.” He pulled back on his
jacket that he had taken off when he went
into his office and made his way to the elevator.
He nearly ran the mailroom clerk
over. He entered the elevator, hit the button
for the 63rd floor, and closed the doors.
He preferred to be alone on the elevator
today. He felt almost glorified as he
ascended to the top floor of the building.
The 63rd is the end of the rise to power in
this firm, the top rung of the ladder.
The doors opened and he became a
little light-headed. He groped for something
to hang on to, and felt a hand on his
15

arm.
“Hold on there, Sanders.” It was Mr.
Hardy. “The same thing happened to me
the first time coming up here. Damned if
NASA didn’t design this elevator. Who
needs to go up thirty floors in a matter of
seconds”
“I really couldn’t tell you Mr. Hardy,
but it seems rather efficient to me.”
“Well, if it didn’t make you vomit
then I guess you are the right guy for this.
Come into my office; we need to discuss a
few things.”
They went together into Mr. Hardy’s
office. “Can’t have a junior partner with a
weak stomach, now can we
“Junior partner I didn’t know you
had an opening.”
“We do now. Jeffers just wasn’t
bringing in the right clients.”
“Don’t worry. I well understand that
idea.” Evan still hadn’t adjusted to the elevator
trip yet.
“So can you” Mr. Hardy said rather
impatiently.
“I can bring in money if that’s what
you are asking. I have been for the last
four years.”
“Well, then talk to Stephanie and
start packing. You are the office down the
hall on the left.” Mr. Hardy didn’t have
time to chatter with people who weren’t
paying for his ear.
Evan stopped by Stephanie’s desk
across from the elevator. He talked to her
for a few minutes, got the key to his new
office and met his new secretary. It seemed
Janine was staying on the 30th floor. Mr.
Hardy also gave him the rest of the day off
to make whatever adjustments needed to be
made and to flip through an office furniture
catalogue to decide what style suited him
best. So Evan made the train ride back
home, planning to make the necessary
phone calls from there to change his various
appointments. He was so excited he
had forgotten his cigarettes in his desk
drawer.
He walked up the stairs to the apartment
and the keys in his hand jingled as he
went up each flight. He opened the door
and immediately began talking. “Hey, Jess,
you are looking at the new junior partner of
Jameson & Hardy.” He turned to the living
room. There was no reply. He felt like he
had been in the elevator again. The room
felt like it was moving under his feet and
his stomach dropped. The sterility of the
pale light coming in through the windows
made the living room seem like a washedphoto.
His mind reeled at the thoughts of
Jess’s mother and he saw pain lingering in
the room like the smoke from his cigarettes.
He walked across the sea of black
and white checkered tiles that had dissolved
together to form a gray. He turned
on the faucet to the sink and cupped his
hands to catch the clear water. There was
the sheen of scarlet and pale light dancing
through the water. He splashed his face
again and again. After the third time, he
looked up and saw the sunlight shining
through the clouds, the rich, golden-orange
beams fragmented and reflected a thousand
times by the water in his eyes.
Nick Tillman
16

The Exigence For Evolution
One fish two fish red fish blue fish small fish;
So just ask God, get whatever you wish.
And when you wish for an egg do you fear
"No, scorpions for you!" is all you’ll hear
And drinking milk, cultured, you can’t understand
Why when we’re old we’re led by the hand.
The sun will wait no longer in the sky;
The sun keeps running through the by and by.
When will we learn oh impetuous babes
Shall our childhood bring us to our graves
Jared James
Denouement
(George Sand speaking)
Disregard all prior notions of a horn’s blare.
Unforeseen revelations arrive without pomp,
Or subtly; rather love’s finality comes,
Much like the unwanted guest left for which to care.
Even if their presence is viewed for rude than fair,
We, dear Jeanne, admit the boor into our lair.
A cad indeed, I received far too glad to lie.
His habits that once endeared his nature to me,
Grew as weary and vexing as the constant drip.
All charm and exotic allure were replaced by
Unsettling spite, ridiculous rows, caustic cries.
My once invaluable muse has left me with sighs.
You see that I am perched, back against this cool pane.
One turn would reveal his descent, my loss and gain.
Miriam Easterling
17

Anarchy
*ATTENTION*
The time has come.......
Listen! I'm not mad, but I've devised a plan.
Fool proof to control the world in my hand.
It'll be glorious, they can't destroy us.
When we reign, the world will be a toy to us.
Imagine– a world of silence caused by violence.
Dictating malice, I'm giddy mad about it.
Risk life sized! The government capsized!
Yes yes! The fateful day has arrived!
The anarchy party! Pour up the Bacardi!
Stop me Not hardly a new move starring me.
Metallic flesh becomes the maker of death.
My harsh words will halt their breath.
The world is yet to see serious trouble.
I've got it raining red, blood puddles.
Ranting and raving, the world I'm over taking.
Counter attack this creature You must be mistaken
It's so simple! A subtle trick, fill all with pop music.
Flood the radio, sound waves instantly confusing.
Pathetic lives being lived, the music is amusing.
Make N'Sync world leaders, Britney will be queen.
Attack the world with forces unseen
I crept in low like, yet I'm yet to reign higher.
I can see it now, the horizon made out of fire!
Let the madness continue, I'm not through!
I hope the world knows I'm serious, split skulls in two.
Massacre masses with methodical madness!
Screaming streams of spit sparking sudden sadness!
The world falls to darkness, pillars fallen.
The devil dances wildly, me and Satan are ballin'
Drain the oceans; fill them up with gallons of beer.
Turn the world into alcoholics; they'll believe all they hear.
Oh, the day is yet to come, I hope I see them all run.
Approach this day with pistol in hand,
Never hesitate to retaliate, I don't give a damn.
Got the glock cocked, I'm ready for war son.
*click click* Ready, get set, *BANG* run............
Joshua Shelton
18

Bourbon Street Symphony
Beside the black Jazz piano
tinkling scales into the smoky air
forests of night owls burning cigarettes
put out with a sizzle in dirty Brandy glasses—
the night wrapped in the cool ice of silence
her hands speak of Latino legends
dark like rich coffee—swamp cypress
of the big New Orleans street mama chorus
bellowing softly from the pavement
of Bourbon street—in the warm Cajun mist
Neil Myers
Musical Time
Every word is a melody
and fingers, a symphony.
Lift me up the scales
of your ringing fingertips.
(the Hawaiians, yes, they dance
and their hands tongue poetry
as their skirts mull over the earth.
Their poetry rolls from their hands
and drops ripely to the ground like dates)
Lilting long, longthroated song
rest me in the noble crook of your arm
and take measure of me, too,
in your finely-turned line.
G.S. Morris
19

HONORABLE MENTION
STATEWIDE POETRY CONTEST
This Piece of Wood on My Shelf
He gathered many a quit-claim
to make the land his.
Followed the surveyor
through briars and bog,
black water filling bootprints.
Watched the hatchet blaze
trunks of sweetgum, oak.
Dragged the measuring chain
through pine seedlings
toward border of fallow fields.
But the lightwood post,
chisled with Roman numerals,
set solid at one corner,
gave him the most satisfaction.
A man, a father, his land said.
Thirty-eight years later, a new survey,
modern equipment, no chains,
the corner set in concrete,
wooden post uprooted.
He carried it home to the woodpile.
Winter after winter,
choosing logs for the fireplace,
he never selected that one.
Doris Blough
20

My Faith
You see my faith she ran away
Got gold tobacco with pink berets
Should have heard it when my mother scold me
Should have listened what my father told me
Don’t you trust a woman who always pray
Go take the wind out of my sails
Knock the red engine off my rails
Paint me a pink sky into gray
My Faith’s a girl who never stays
Snatch a salamander by the tail
Break off and wiggle in your hand.
Try to put a sand crab into a pale
And it’ll sift slowly to the sand.
Pluck you a blue dragonfly wing
Teach a gray pigeon to sing
She won’t ever come back to me
She ain’t nothing but a dream
Hallowed
This chapel can stir me a reverie,
Pouring my past into my present bowl.
I recollect an anxious tot pawing
Eagerly through Creator praising, soul
Saving hymns. Small eyes peer at words before
A simple visage. Through sounds exotic,
These carols are carved into her small care.
Divine melodies become rhetoric.
Now I hear the clamor of clanging tongues;
The tom and snare hammer out common beats,
Complimenting the rusty guitar strums.
Members will rise and fall out of their seats.
I shut eyes and wonder what child binds,
Alleluia to the back of my mind.
A blooming necklace of poison ivy
Honey Bee combs in her dangerous hair
Please If you see her ask her why
Ask her why she always always cries.
Ben Snyder
Miriam Easterling
21

WINNER,
STUDENT POETRY CONTEST
St. John of the Cross Gives a Sermon
O what of us when darkness falls
And moon inconstant light provides
To weep for day, for joy call,
To lick our wounds and grasp our sides
Read, O soul, that glowing gospel
Scrawled across the sky’s black page.
Attend to stars, who suffering sermons tell,
Besieged priests and ever-flaming sages.
Life’s nights, Purgatory’s first flames are
Sufferings temporal to remit eternal.
Yet still we cry through darkest air,
For light so we may walk to Hell.
Nick Tillman
22

Mr. Cardinal
Mr. Cardinal sits on a fence post
Surveying the green leaves around him
It seems as though he were lost
On his little brown perch with green trim.
He suddenly moves to a tree branch
To the right and above and behind
On which he shuffles and twitches in dance
As if he were giving a sign.
Ahhh, and here is Mrs. Cardinal
In her muted and mottled attire
It seems that her voice is more able
As she sings like a one-woman choir.
I see now why Mr. Cardinal
Seemed so nervous and tense
He knew that Mrs. Cardinal
Was angry because he sat on that fence.
Matt Doyle
Chanteur
Red coat of reason
you leave me wanting
crying for rain
absolution from under the moist fern
or the breeze in the palm leaves
swaying like slow dreams
in the evening
a tenor blue sparrow
eyes the morning rainbow
forgets the song of the day before
(sunlight in B-minor, opus 2)
his silver radiating tune between the green trees
paper history
old dirty bags of better thoughts
collected in floor of the cage.
23
Neil Myers

Another Season
“The sky seems darker today than
usual,” thought Annabelle as she sat down
on the cold, metal stands. It was mid-April
and the fifth game of the season. The
scoreboard reported the home team’s winning
streak but Annabelle paid little attention
to the details of the game. She was
carrying on her task of the dutiful girlfriend;
show up to the ball game and her
task is complete.
“Good luck Henry!” she silently
mouthed to her attractive shortstop. He
flashed a grin before quickly shifting his
facial expression from her own amiable ball
player to an attentive athlete she scarcely
recognized.
Now that his attention was elsewhere
she could focus her thoughts on the
tidy, green outfield that lay before her. She
propped her elbows on a bench while tucking
her right leg neatly under her left.
“Five, nine, seven…” Annabelle softly
counted as she watched a flock of geese
gather and disperse individually in far outfield.
Just as she was settling into this
quiet comfort she saw a flash of turquoise
in the corner of her eye as she simultaneously
heard a trilling voice:
“Annahbellah my dear, yoohoo!”
It was Henry’s very large and very
loud mother who carried the chiming voice
and plus-sized, multi-colored wind suit.
Annabelle could not decide whether
it was the frosted hair or viciously applied
lipstick that stretched just above the
woman’s natural lip line that made her
appear outdated. This woman was of a rare
breed of mothers who could not be more
oblivious as to how tacky they were regarded
by the rest of the world outside their
families.
As Henry’s mom huffed her way from
the bottom of the bleachers, Annabelle
thought, “How did my handsome Henry, of
slim torso and rugged features ever come
from this ridiculous woman. She looks as if
she’s just going to take off one of these
days. Is this cow supposed to be my future
mother-in-law”
Ashamed by her cruel thoughts,
Annabelle’s cheeks burned as she rose to
greet the woman.
“Hello, Mrs. Lundgren,” Annabelle
said cordially as she scooted over to make
room for the rotund woman.
“Hello my dear child!” The woman
panted from exhaustion. “Traffic was simply
abhorrent and who would believe it to
be so at such a time in the morning. Such a
time!”
Annabelle smiled kindly back to the
spirited woman thinking that noon was
hardly morning and, on a Saturday, not a
terribly strange time for any sort of recognition.
The woman pulled out two overly
inflated red cushions and stuck one under
her as she attempted to prod the other one
under Annabelle.
“Oh, I can get that myself Mrs.
Lundgren!” Annabelle laughed, embarrassed
by the woman’s odd forcefulness.
“Well I just want to keep that lovely
dress of yours as clean as possible. These
benches have such awful mud caked to
them and do you know how difficult it is to
scrub dirt out of delicate fabrics”
Annabelle let the woman carry on
about her extensive knowledge of garment
cleaning and gingerly sat herself down on
the red cushion. She imagined what some
younger girls behind her were thinking, a
girl almost their age sitting on an older
woman’s patio cushion.
24

“And I do believe that Spray ‘n’
Wash is one of the most incredible inventions
in modern science!” the woman bubbled,
adding a crescendo on the last three
syllables.
Annabelle nodded politely and
attempted to look engaged in the game as a
means to escape gossip hour with the detergent-fixated
woman.
“But enough , enough with my
household hints! Let us discuss what little
plans you have for the future. What is it
exactly that you want to do” the woman
leaned in with anticipation.
“I suppose I’ll go to college,”
Annabelle wondered out loud. She didn’t
add that being the wife to this woman’s son
was probably her only goal in mind at the
time.
Annabelle was consistently introduced
as Henry’s special friend” in the
Lundgren household and considered this as
a great sign of the reticence that the
woman had to her becoming part of the
family too soon. Or maybe it was just
another example of the extraordinary
eccentricity that ran through the woman.
“What a lovely idea my dear!” the
woman spouted. “I adored my college
years. They were really my last days of
freedom before I became the lovely woman
of leisure that you know today.”
Annabelle remembered seeing a
photo of this woman during those college
years. She was a handsome woman with a
beautiful smile and glowing skin. Still
large at the time, she carried a sort of
power and grace with her stature that was
recognizable even from a photo. Annabelle
hardly recognized the woman of years
before in contrast to the woman of now.
“I was the first in my family to have
graduated from college,” the woman puffed,
“what glorious years they were!”
Annabelle heard Henry telling her
once of his mother’s accomplishments as a
college student. She was not only the first
to have graduated from her family; she was
the first female to graduate Suma Cum
Laude from her university. The woman had
graduated with a degree in Biology and
desired to study medicine in graduate
school, before she met her future husband
in Biochemistry course her senior year. The
woman never made it past her Bachelor of
Science, but she became the wife to a
future Dr. Howard Lundgren, M.D.
She never understood the pride that
her boyfriend held in his ridiculous mother.
This woman, her hopeful future in human
form, was nothing short of alien to
Annabelle.
The woman pulled out a large bar of
chocolate and proceeded to attack the
sweet with vigor.
“And you simply must study abroad,”
the woman spoke through a mouthful of
chocolate. “It will be the highlight of your
entire time in college. Did I ever tell you
about my adventures in Spain”
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Lundgren,”
Annabelle replied with swift courtesy. She
tried to mask her repulsion as she averted
her eyes from the curious blend of lipstick
and now bits of chocolate clung to the corners
of the woman’s mouth.
“A wild woman was I back then!
Dancing all hours of the night and attending
class during the day. You would have
hardly recognized me from the woman I am
today. Have you ever had the chance to
travel abroad”
“I haven’t even been out of the tristate
area yet,” Annabelle admitted.
25

“Well you better get yourself moving!
Nothing compares to an experience of
another culture,” the woman chortled.
Annabelle imagined distant lands of
strange scents and sounds.
The woman continued to chatter as
Annabelle felt a warm itch on the back of
her neck. She raised her eyes from the
gabby woman and fixed it on the sun, which
had finally decided to rise and give its full
light to the field.
Miriam Easterling
26

The Blue Grasses of Home
Beneath sky-scraping sunlight,
beer-toters herd like cattle
matting the meadows.
Fans flock like proverbial ducks
craving turquoise twang
in moments of stolen shade,
lying prostrate on slippery slopes
beating with earthly vibrations.
Amid bliss, air thickens
with watermelon-flavored echoes
of rugged relaxation—
the crude Emerald Strum
nourishing the holler.
October
October morning
The early mountain sunshine
Now dispels the fog
James Meadows
Light dims and darkness descends on intoxicated soil stompers,
glowing with carefree Kentucky.
Sweltering skin cools at the tempo of dewdrops:
invisible nocturnal showers.
Our Last Summer
Rhythmic races of stringed singers
possess brothers of harmony
and sweet sisters’ tongues
together,
forcing to the hillside bellows of Blue Moon.
Resonating Monroe, dancers swoon in starlight
picking mellow, primitive strokes
with bare feet and sober hearts.
Lovesick lullabies sooth
drunk one-legged coyotes.
Haiku
Bright colored leaves fall
Lying around decaying,
Nourishing new life.
Heidi Arnold
Jamie Bunn
Spoonfuls of earthworms,
veggie peelings, eggshells,
seasons of autumn leaves,
coffee grounds I shoveled
into red clay
before it grew cold.
When spring geraniums
crashed barriers of white pots,
the way feisty breasts
outrule strapless gowns,
obsession set in. Drunk
with success I nursed ladybugs,
sheltered a praying mantis
from rain, too much sun,
fed wild birds, supported
GreenPeace, Save-the-Whales.
Day by day the soil ran finer
than hourglass sand
through my city hands.
I felt sanctified, ate no fat,
Gave myself to all,
so little to you.
Genevieve Kissack
27

Spontaneity 1 is 2 in 3 the 4 eye 5 of 6 the 7 beholder 8 .
1
Spontaneous: eclectic demigod of flagellating extemporaneous abandon.
William Wordsworth: Capricious Romantic “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of feeling recollected
in tranquility.” Percy, Percy, Percy can’t you see, sometimes your words just mesmerize me.
JLDIORW MFPQH ”The pompanos of love.”
2
Existential equilibrium. The Infinite I AM.
“If I had face of posy wild
methinks a child of paper nose
would fold and flog a simple smile
Or better yet write it in prose.”
3
Cube3 M=E/C2. Black box.
Ex. 25:10- “And they shall construct an ark of acacia wood two and a half cubits long, and one and a
half cubits wide, and one and a half cubits high.
4
Definite articles of clothing worn by Egyptian priests around their loins for their moon dancing rite
for god Krafchese, the god of Bull. xzY^a‘ see footnote 7
5
Pink Iris: Rear view window mirrored satin drapery. Linen sheets blowing in the breeze.
Dr. Francias Zenocrate: The Solar model of atomic structure parallels our own swirling eddies within
ocular lenses as waves and particles scan over time and infinite cosmos.
6
Marcel Frolic states in his manifesto on flatness: “The World is flat” that canvas is a flat plane and
painting consists of the application of pigment on a flat surface. Color and line placement creates
the
illusion of depth and dimension.
7
“If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends.” See footnote 4.
8
Jean-Bartholomew Amorous “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder” Relativity concerns the opinion
of the spectator such as shapes and forms in symmetrical juxtaposition create an order in the psyche
of every individual.
John Keats: Ode to a Grecian Urn- “Beauty is truth.“
Ben Snyder
28

Orange Moonshine
11:30 pm on the Auckland Motorway
no sound—save the whoosh of
the tires of occasional
night travelers
Over us, the moon burns orange
its dark seas and silent mountains
blanketed in a Vincent Price
horror movie pastel—
I think maybe there is a lonely moon-man
with a shack propped against a rock
on Mare Traquilitas
guzzling deep gulps of light
that bathe him in orange moonshine.
from starfires somewhere out there.
Tranquility
Streams pour over rocks
trickling melodically down
into copper pools.
Post-Tranquility
Fog descends upon
the valley’s verdant meadows
bringing drowsiness.
Nick Tillman
Neil Myers
29

Granny’s Story
It was one of them hot, muggy days,
where there’s so much water in the air you
get sticky just walkin to the mailbox and
back. I guess’t the mugginess was on
account of it’d rained the night before. On
days like that you can sorta see the heat
risin off the road in little waves, it messes
with your eyes a bit, makes ya see things
that aint really there. I reakon it was about
noon when I finally went out to get the
paper. I remember, cause I usually don’t
take s’long, but it was just so damn hot, and
Matlock was really givin it to ‘em good on
the TV. Always wins his cases, that Matlock
does. My grandson Benny sure could have
used a lawyer like that when them robberies
down in Johnston County was pulled off. I
still say he was framed. Damn shame, that
was, damn shame.
Anyway, it was slow goin’ to my
paper on account of I had to use my walker.
Its hard getting’ your breath on a day like
that, heat cooks your lungs. Not that
m’lungs are worth much anyway, leastways
not anymore. I wasn’t complainin’ though,
cause my Arnold had been laid up in the
house hooked up to that oxygen tank for
about a month. I sure as hell hadn’t come to
that, not yet at least. Them doctors charge
you an arm and a leg to tell you they cain’t
do a damn thing, and they’re real sorry,
please come back again soon. Only reason I
was going to get the paper in the first place
was ‘em damn doctors. If it hadn’t been for
the bills I wouldn’ta been out to get them
coupons. I hadn’t never clipped coupons
before. Felt like welfare to me, like only
poor people bothered with coupons. But I
reckon we was poor all right, just not of the
white trashy kind. Nosirree, we was of the
old as hell kind, and nobody much cares
about the old. At least white trash gets the
courtesy of an f* you, whereas most people
just wish we’d die and get the hell outta
their way.
So like I was sayin’, we was in debt
up to our asses, an I was thinkin’ ‘bout
when we’d get to retire to ole Florida, where
they say most of us flock to die. But here I
was clippin’ coupons for half off some Jiffy
peanut butter, and I know’d Florida weren’t
comin, not to us anywho. We’d die right
where we was, and nobody’d care, cause like
I said, we was old. Hell, Florida’s too damn
hot anyway, an I could hardly stand it here.
I was thinking an I’d just made up
my mind on Alaska and was bending over to
get that paper when I heard it. Felt it too.
Damn thing blew my skirt plumb up over my
head. Good thing I was wearin’ my drawers
or the neighbors would’ve seen m’bare ass.
Not that old bare ass is much to look at. I
tell ya, that heat plumb near knocked me
down. If it hadn’t been for the walker keeping
me steady, I’d of toppled right into the
ditch anyways. First I didn’t know what to
think, I reckon the sound of the ‘splosion
took my hearin’. Ain’t been able to make
out much in either ear since then leastways.
So there I was in the ditch, couldn’t
hear a damn thing, wit’ stuff fallin down on
me, and I finally get a glimpse of the house.
Flames was shootin’ out everywhere, and
the lawn furniture was sailing toward the
neighbors house. The first thing I saw was
that white plastic lawn furniture Arnold
liked so much. Every damn body in the
neighborhood had the same furniture, and he
couldn’t resist keeping up with the Smiths,
or the Reynolds, or however that sayin’ goes.
That lawn furnitures’ what made me remember
Arnold, still in the house, hooked up to
his oxygen. I started yellin’ then, and crawlin’
out of the ditch. But by that time the
neighbors was there, holdin’ me back, and
yellin’ stuff I couldn’t hear. All’s I know is
they wouldn’t let me go get Arnold, and I
was fightin’ an fussin’ so hard my dentures
30

damn near fell out, but I didn’t care. They
was holdin’ me good, so all’s I could do is
watch our house getting’ eatin’, with the
winders splodin’ an glass all over the place.
The fire trucks got there before the
roof collapsed, and they had to drag ole
Jimmy Dobson out the flames. I didn’t see it,
but ‘parently Jimmy went in to find my
Arnold and ended up getting hurt himself.
Afterward they was sprayin’ their big hoses
and the police was takin’ people’s statements,
getting the who all’s and what all’s of
the situation, I guess’t. Didn’t really understand
what business the police had there at
the time. Figured it was a job for the firemen
and the insurance company, and that
was about it. Guess I found out what them
policemen wanted though.
So I’m sittin’ down and Margie from
next door was nice enough to bring me
somethin’ to drink, lemonade, as I recollect.
Margie’s lemonade was always fresh and
homemade, none of that Country Time stuff
for her. She did good by her family in that
way. So anyways, I’m sittin’ there, drinkin’
my lemonade, waitin’ for them to find
Arnold, when the police man finally makes
his way over to me. He was a real young
one, probably a rookie and green around the
gills, but he shore was nice. Said they was
doin’ their best to find Arnold, and that if I
didn’t mind could we go down to the police
station for a few minutes to answer some
questions. I was too worried ‘bout Arnold to
be bothered by any stupid questions, which
probably had t’do with insurance matters
anyway. The insurance companies could
wait for all I’s concerned, I wasn’t movin’
till I saw Arnold.
Well, ‘bout two hours later there was
still no Arnold. The kids was there by that
time. Margie called ‘em, I think. They really
ain’t no tellin’ how’s they found out, seein’
as how I never asked and now they ain’t
speakin’ to me. The kids was pretty upset,
but they was able to deal with the police so I
didn’t have to bother, and that was fine by
me. By this time I know’d he was dead, and
the kids know’d it, and everybody else
know’d it too. So’s it seemed to me that the
fire was out, Arnold was dead, and everyone
could just go home now and mind their own
damn business. I was ready to be left alone,
thank you very much. But the firemen and
the policemen wouldn’t leave. They wouldn’t
even let me start picking up the pieces of
what was salvageable. Called it messin’
with evidence, or somethin’ like that. I figured
if they needed evidence of a fire, well,
there was enough burn stuff lyin’ around for
that, but I let ‘em do their job. Must have
been a slow day, no one else to go rescue,
‘cause they sure did stay a long time, pokin’
here and puttin’ this and that in a bag. I
just knowed they was probably stealin’ my
granny’s weddin’ ring. Kids always said I
needed to trust people more, but I don’t
trust nobody that says they have more right
to touch my stuff than I do, burnt damn
mess or not.
So’s Margie let me and the kids come
over t’her place an collect ourselves, as she
put it. I though that a kind of funny thing
t’say, but she meant well enough. A little
later we got a call from the hospital.
Seemed ole Jimmy Dobson was goin’ t’make
it, just a little smoke in his windpipe or
something’ like that. Hell, Jimmy’d been
lightn’ up for years. I could have told ‘em
that a little smoke weren’t gonna keep him
down. But doctor’s gotta mke their livin’
somehow.
Seems it was right after we got the
call about Jimmy that the doorbell rang. It
was that young police officer again. I figured
he’d of quit by now, him bein’ so green
and all. But there he was again, askin’ me
the same question. This time he weren’t so
nice, though, and I figured I’d better go. So
down to the station we all went, me bein’
31

quiet, an’ the kids just a cussin’ through
their tears, looking confused as hell. I was
just thinking them insurance people sure
don’t waste no time. Figured they was
gonna tell me m’policy expired or somethin’,
or didn’t’ cover fire that begun in splosions,
or some silly shit like that. They’re always
looking for a ways around givin’ you what’s
yours. But I was wrong, they didn’t want to
talk about insurance at all.
The police was askin’ ‘bout Arnold,
‘an what was our relationship like and was I
happy. Well, I was down t’clipping coupons,
what the hell did they think But I told ‘em
sure we was happy, ups and downs of course
but I loved him. An’ I did. They asked a
bunch of other questions, but the whammy is
the one I remember the most…did you kill
your husband Mrs. Brubaker. They thought
I killed my Arnold. Well, the whole damn
family just about had a fit when I layed that
one on ‘em. ‘Parently them firemen found
somethin’ they didn’t like when they was
diggin’ ‘round in my mess, said it pointed to
arson. I cain’t imagine someone wanting to
kill Arnold, but I reckon them men know
how t’do their job, and don’t make a habit of
lyin’. So fact was fact, someone blew up my
house with Arnold in it, and they thought it
was me.
‘Parently the jury thought it was me
too, ‘cause I been sittin’ here for about 4
years now. Women’s Correctional Facility’s
the proper name for it, but I don’t mind too
much. They feed me regular and I get to
watch Matlock. The kids don’t come
though, they think I did it too. The other
women here ain’t too bad, ‘cept they smoke
too much and cuss somethin’ awful. Now, I
ain’t no Bible belt church woman, but I don’t
know half the words them women say, and I
reckon that’s best.
They say the parole board’s gonna be
meetin’ soon, and I’m up next. But I figure
life ain’t so bad here. With Arnold dead and
the kids not lovin’ me anymore, life could
get kind of lonely. At least here I got my
books and my TV, and someone always gets
the paper for me. I ain’t gotta clip them
damn coupons, neither. It sure as hell ain’t
Alaska though, but I don’t reckon I was ever
cut out for the cold.
Tasha Romero
Cowboy rests at dusk.
Hues tint the darkening sky,
pink, peach, purple fuse.
Jamie Peterson
32

descending brightness
illuminating shadows
beautiful collapse
Scott Shamblee
A Ghost in the Darkness
His golden shadow
Is ever swiftly sweeping,
creeping silently.
Tracy Ray
33

Adolescence of a Calvinistic God
Bled on bed of dead roses
My mighty warrior king
I can’t crow, I can’t sing
Honey bee buzz, scorpion sting
The Dogs of War cut off my thumbs
Plucked the poppy, gall got me numb
Cut my fingers to the nubs
Did in my toes so I can’t walk
Tore out my eyes one for one
Like an angel without a soul
Striped my tongue right from my mouth
Like a fish from a bowl
Harden her brain so she won’t see
So I can be justified to break her
Flown sky to sky under this fermented firmament
As Lightening lights up cross dark man’s faces
Sold to me this worthy stallion races.
Hanging in gardens by the rivers of Babylon
There on the willows laid weeping harps
Smashed her fetuses’ skulls against the rocks.
Ben Snyder
But here between Death and Dream
All is she and she is always with me
And I know what you’re wondering
How does he still speak to me
Tongues are dried daisies
And fat men die lazy
But family name is a specter
No one can conjecture
But oh in those ancient of Days
When you rode bareback on watery unicorns
You gave me bangles made of thorns
Then the Lord said to my Lord
Tie their hair together dipped in gasoline.
Naked in Tobacco fields, peeling white wine
When I met you, you was nothing
But a babe, a newborn child
Made you from mud,
Dress you in yellow belly sundresses,
Put a ring in your nostrils empress
Like a mulatto Pocahontas princess.
What you did to me
Makes me hate your face.
Like cracked porcelain plates on cement.
Scales, Unbalanced bridges, busted teeth.
Blood of Innocence
Spiraled vision,
Clouds of confusion overhead.
Dread the eternal eclipse;
Drips the blood of the innocent.
Sent running through hands of ice,
A sacrifice to melt the frozen land.
Expands and collapses the solid stone
That's thrown in the depthless lake.
Quakes, the plates of sand
Demanding calmness of all.
Calls the man in black...
"Sack, for the corpse in here."
A tear from his eye is shed,
For the dead; the innocent.
Chris Quinn
I will mold her mind to hate me
Then raise my fist to her cheek
34

Against the Rational
Like the crawling baby, stopping to taste
the dog’s food or pick the flower
off the quilt, we want to
experience the thing without having
to be mindful, comprehend, or translate.
We want to know the butterfly from its wing,
Ein Junge Adreissert Sein Spielzing
Listen up mine underlingly subjects!
It is I, your prophet who directs:
Perk up your little toy ears and listen
Make sure you notice my glory glisten.
It is time for change around here
But it’s for the better, so don’t fear.
Some of you are going to have to go;
You should be glad to be in the know.
So quickly file off to your chambers
(oh but guilt; they’re necessary dangers).
Now for those of you who are left:
Neither shed tears nor feel bereft.
Your friends are being used as wisely as you
So don’t think it vain--that’s simply not true!
It’s all for the good of the sum, you see--
You and they shall make playroom history.
But you are much different from all of them;
You’re much superior; made from a greater stem.
So it is for you, and you alone
To whom my best new toy is shown:
Toys on the shelf, toys in the garbage can,
I introduce to you my Superman!
Jared James
the needle from its eye, snow by its crystal,
happiness through tempest or flash or fever.
Like visionary Rimbaud, who reasonably
deranged his senses, we want each other’s
center unmixed with collateral or
accessory, unmediated.
The Existential Epistle
--Blake meets Kierkegaard.
Sandra Eisdafer
The existential epistle
Hangs on clouded thistles.
The weeds of those that are born
Hang like nooses of strewn rose thorns.
The plague of death lingers on,
In order to carry us back home.
Ben Currin
35

The Whole Hog
Quite out of place, a well-dressed
gentleman sits alone at a bar. The place is
dark, musty, and to be honest in need of a
good cleaning. A few regulars shoot pool in
the far back corner of the room but otherwise
the place is empty. The bartender
busies himself but remains attentive as the
gentleman nervously tells of his recent marital
infidelity. True to good form, the bartender
attempts to remain neutral and only
offers minimal comments to the gentleman’s
story.
“Is that right Hmm, now aint that
something” The bartender finishes drying
the glasses and hangs his towel on a hook
on the edge of the bar.
A gritty fellow, half-toothed and haggard,
sidles up next to the gentleman and
orders himself a beer. He aims one ear at
their conversation as the gentleman continues
rattling on. The old fellow’s brow wrinkles
and relaxes with each new detail of the
gentleman’s unfolding tale. Having until
now expressed nothing more than a mild
curiosity toward their musiongs, the old fellow
begins to display a rather thoughtful
look and a wide, knowing grin spreads over
his face.
“Well son, I can tell you, shore as I’m
a livin’, if she’s actin’ right spicious an’ all,
she’s bound to know sumpthin’. You’d be a
sight better off if you go on an’ tell ‘er.
about it.get it out in the open an’ all”
“Is that right, old fellow And just
how am I supposed to do that ‘Honey I’m
home. Oh, just fine. How about yours
That’s great, dear. By the way, I wanted to
let you know that I slept with your friend,
Judy, last weekend.’ Sure, that’s it. My
dilemma is over. I can’t begin to thank you
enough for your incredible insight and
advice.”
“Make fun if you want. But I’m
telling’ ya’ that it’d go a sight easier on ya’
if ya’ go on an’…”
“And I’m telling you that I’m not asking
for your advice. Barkeep, could I get
another, a double please.”
“Look here mister, don’t go getting’
your feathers all ruffled up. Matter a fact,
let’s just don’t talk about that no more. No
sense carry’n on about sumpthin’ if ya’ don’t
want to.”
The bartender places the drink on the
bar. The gentleman sighs heavily amid a
brief quietness that is interrupted only by
the occasional crack of pool balls.
“So”, the old fellow chimes in, “did ya
hear about what happened to ol’ man
Ferguson last week”
“No, as a matter of fact I didn’t.
However, I got the feeling that I’m about to
find out”
“Well, as you well know, bein’ early
Fall and all, that it’s time for the punkins to
start comin’ outta the fields. So ol’ man
Ferguson takes his stake-bed truck out to
town to sell. Well, they loaded that truck
with them punkins till the tires was a fixin’
to pop and ol’ Freguson headed on back
towards town with ‘em. I’d been out at
Ben’s pond for a little fishin’ an’ was comin’
by ‘bout that time an’ I seen the whole
thing. Well, he aint no more than got out on
the road good and was getting’ up some
speed and all a suddent this bit ol’ hawg just
run right out in front his truck and sorta just
stoond there in the road. ‘Fore he knowed
what hit him, ol’ Ferguson swerved a hard
left and that truckload o’ punkins just tipped
right over on top o’ that big hawg. That
truck slid a little ways an’ them punkins
36

was just busted all over the road and the
ones what won’t busted went rollin’ an’
bouncin’ here an’ therer. And a layin’ there
in the road amongst all them busted punkins
was that ol’ hawg an’ he was just squashed.
Man, I’m telling you it was mess. Well, Ben
heard the ruckus an’ he come a runnin.
‘Bout the time he got to the truck, ol’
Ferguson was climbin’ out an he was in a
awful sort an’ madder’n fire.”
“Bartender, another double please.
And quickly!”
“Well ol’ Ferguson lit into Ben like
there won’t no tomorrow. Couldn’t see how
any man couldn’t keep his own hawgs in
pen. An’ better yet, he was sure gonna’ pay
him back for that en-tire load o’ punkins.
‘That aint my dang hawg,’ says Ben, ‘an my
pen’s tight as a tick. Just checked on ‘em
right before you got here for that load o’
punkins and ever one of ‘em was right there
in the pen.’ Ol’ man Ferguson was might y
upset an’ he was getting ready to light in
again an’ he was lookin’ down at that hawg.
Well, just about that time, one of that ol’
hawg’s legs went to twitchin’, Right gentle
like, at first, but then they all got to
twitchin’ an’ that hawg got to jerkin’ an’ a
floppin all about might fierce like. Looked
‘bout like an ol’ channel cat you done
throwed up on the bank, he was cuttin’ a
right good rusty.”
“What, for heaven’s sake, is a
‘rusty’”
“Then, shore as I’m a livin’, that ol’
hawg done an jumped up on all fours. He’s
standin’ there right wobbly like an’ a lookin’
around at all us like we was space aileens or
sumphin’. An’ we was all lookin’ back at
him right quare, too, ‘cause we all done figured
he was dead already.
“An’ right about then, he took to a
powerful kickin fit. Man, he was carry’n on
good like on of them buckin’ rodeo broncs.
He was kickin’ an’ a stompin’ them busted
punkins an’ pieces was flyin’ all whichaways.
Well, then that big ol’ hawg done an’
popped a whellie and when his front half
come down he went to diggin’ it. They was
just dirt and punkin flyin’ at us and that
hawg was getting’ on outta here I tell ya’. I
seen some pigs run in my time but that ‘en
done set the record. An’ where you reckon
he run to”
“Home, I suppose. Maybe he just
wanted to run into the woods and die in
peace. Who knows Who really cares
“Well that ol’ hawg split a bee line
straight for Ben’s hawg pen. We watched
him as he cut right back into that pen just
right where he musta’ come out from. Well,
byt hat time, there won’t no getting’ out for
Ben. Yeah, took ol’ Ben Johnson for a big ol’
chuck to pay back for all them busted up
punkins. Yessir, shore did.”
Staring at the old guy as if HE were
the alien, the gentleman could hold back no
longer, “just what the hell are you talking
about”
“Oh, just seems to me if he’d just
owned up to that hawg bein’ his from the
git-go, maybe he could have worked out a
deal with ol’ man Feguson. That’s all.”
“That’s all”
“That’s the whole hawg, aint it”
Thomas Holbrook
37

HONORABLE MENTION
STUDENT POETRY CONTEST
"Wood Would be a Finer Flesh"
We age more quickly than this tree
That in a year will sprout its leaves
And so adorn its branch a day,
When they will fall down and decay.
Its fruit will ripen in an hour,
Then, in a minute, rot and sour.
But, in a second, we’ll be dead,
With cold, gray stones to mark our heads.
So ladies come, we’ll fly away
While winds may blow and branches sway.
Nick Tillman
38

Gardening
Violets blooming,
Birds sing from top tree branches,
Life begins again.
Jamie Bunn
I waited as long as I could –
Planting pansies and leaving impatience –
Zinnias at Thanksgiving my goal.
But the season snuck in
Quietly under cover of lessening light –
Leaves blazing and temperatures dropping,
Coating my lawn with crystals of ice.
Angel trumpets sounding no more
Frozen sadly in place
Til morning turned them mushy and dull.
Remove the vestige of the year –
Leaves to rake and beds to tidy.
Put the beds to bed.
But before I pull the cover of mulch
I will reach into the earth
And gently place the harbingers of spring
That will burst forth into glorious color.
When trees are bare and grasses brown
The vibrant yellows and pinks
Will echo the smoldering shades of gold and red.
With ivory roots that reach in the depths of loamy richness
Where papery skin will grow firm and verdant
With the treasures of a new season.
39
Angela Sox

The Smallest of Places
I
“Some of the biggest things in life are found
in the smallest of places,” my grandmother
used to tell me. I’m starting to believe her
more and more each day. My grandma told
me a lot of things when I was growing up
but that one has stayed with me.
Every Saturday morning, my grandma would
get up early to fix us pancakes. Grandpa and
I would gulp ours down as quickly as we
could and head out the side door. “Did you
even taste ‘em” Grandma would call just
before the clap of the screen door behind us.
As soon as the animals were fed, Grandpa
and I would load ourselves into his ’54 Ford
pickup and make our way to Mr. Pettigrew’s
farm.
Grandpa and Mr. Pettigrew had known each
other “all their lives” as they told it. Every
year, they would put on their old military
hats and march together in the Veteran’s
Day parade. There used to be more of them
marching – lots more they told me – but for
the last few years it was only Grandpa and
Mr. Pettigrew. They could have been brothers
but Mr. Pettigrew’s skin was dark brown
and Grandpa’s wasn’t. “Doesn’t matter a bit
the color of a man’s skin,” grandpa used to
say, “It’s what’s inside that counts.” He
would pat his chest for emphasis. “Grandma
must have been telling him some things
too”, I figured.
After much straining, the old Ford would
cough and spit and then rumble to life. With
the smell of exhaust fumes filling the truck,
Grandpa would wrestle the old column-shift
into submission and we would be on our way.
The dirt road to Mr. Pettigrew’s was very
bumpy. As the truck struggled to keep
rolling, scraps of wood and old tractor parts
would dance on the oak planks of the bed.
You could count on the old Ford’s sturdy
tires to find every rock and hole in the road.
In the side mirror, I could see the bumper
waving in the cloud of dust. With great
effort, the rusty thing would hang on well
enough to follow us every time. Through a
hole in the floorboard, I could see the gravel
of the road fly by beneath us in a blur. In
summer we always had the windows down.
“It’s our only air conditioning and we’re
gonna use it, by God!” Grandpa would
declare with a pumped fist. My hair would
tickle my face as the wind whipped it about.
I would try to hang my arm out the window
like Grandpa did but the bugs would sting
and I’d always have to pull it back in.
On one side of the road there was an
apple orchard. The carefully placed trees
would whiz by in rhythmic succession as we
rolled along. Whitetails would often gather
in the orchard for a free meal before the day
got too hot. Grandpa and I would try and
count them before they dashed back into the
thicket. On the other side there was an old
junkyard. Rows and rows of old cars zigzagged
across the field; some stacked one on
top of another like packed cordwood. As I
gazed across the rusty hulks, sun devils
would dance on every roof and hint at the
scorching heat the day would bring.
The old Ford would slow as we came
to the turn-off to Mr. Pettigrew’s farm. The
rusted-out skeletons of farm equipment lay
scattered about, left exactly where they had
died. Their usefulness long since gone, their
remains now only stood as reminders of the
vitality and life the farm once had.
At one time, Mr. And Mrs. Pettigrew ran a
small store. Nothing fancy at all but most of
40

the necessities of the day could be found
there. After Mr. Pettigrew came back from
The War, their house had burned down and
they had moved into the back part of the
store. Their welcome sign still advertised
gas at 39 cents a gallon and I could just
make out the footprint of a long-gone gas
pump. Bleached pink, another sign offered a
Coke, ice-cold and for only 5 cents!
II
We pull into the yard and Mrs. Pettigrew
looks up from her sweeping long enough to
wave to us. “How you men today” Mrs.
Pettigrew asks. “Virgil’s out back like
usual.” We make our way around to the
back, dodging sleeping dogs and reminders
that the chickens have already combed the
yard this morning on bug patrol. Mr.
Pettigrew sits on the back steps in his trademark
red flannel shirt and worn jeans, tossing
grain to the old hens that scuttle around
his feet. His tired eyes and wrinkled brow
reflect the many hard years he has seen. His
long, slender fingers disappear into a rusty
shortening can and withdraw a few kernels
of corn. With a flick of his wrist, the grains
scatter and the girls hustle about to get
their share.
Just beyond where the house used to stand,
there is a woodlot. To the casual observer,
the small stand of trees may not look like
much, but to a poor child with a vivid imagination
– and not much else – it could be a
gateway to a whole new world. Mostly pine
and poplar, with a smattering of sweet gum
and dogwoods, the lot seems quiet and
serene. Daydreaming about my past adventures
in those woods, I stare out toward the
lot.
Like soldiers standing guard, a row of old
fence posts protects the lot from the
encroaching emptiness of the adjoining field.
Sun-bleached and tired, they struggle to
hold themselves upright in the summer heat.
An old oak, stately and wise, reaches out his
branches to give the closer ones a little
shade. Some, however, were not strong
enough to withstand the heat and years and
have fallen to the earth.
I glance back toward Grandpa and Mr.
Pettigrew, who are now engaged in a friendly
debate on the merits of homegrown feed
versus store-bought. With a quick nod,
Grandpa gives me the signal and I sprint for
the woodlot. As it draws closer, my excitement
and anticipation of what awaits me
there pushes me to run even harder. Now
winded, I realize that the summer heat is
fast becoming unbearable. I turn and follow
a path to the interior of the lot.
As the path winds deeper and deeper, the air
becomes noticeably cooler. I begin to catch
glimpses of forest life. A group of sparrows
darts by, chased by a noisy jay. Squirrels
chatter and perform acrobatic acts high in
the canopy of the trees. From out of
nowhere, a stream meanders close to the
path. I kneel down and place my hand in a
small pool. Trickling over rocks and branches,
the water is cool and crystal clear. Only a
few steps later, it disappears. As I move
along, the stream will rise from the ground
beside me as if to gasp a breath of air and
then dive back down into the earth.
Deeper in the forest, two paths converge and
shake hands at a well-worn intersection –
my favorite resting spot. I lie down at the
base of a tree and lean back. Furry tufts of
moss cushion my back and cradle my head. I
close my eyes and a new forest reveals
itself. The squirrels’ chattering becomes a
symphony, each with its own distinct sound.
41

Leaves rustle as the acrobats bound from
limb to limb. The stream gurgles nearby and
now other birds have joined in the jay’s call.
In this peaceful place, the worries of a
young boy’s world begin to melt away. As I
unwind, cooling off under the canopy of
trees, the oppressive heat of the world outside
is soon forgotten and my mind turns to
days of adventure in this woodlot – my
island of adventure.
On one day, my castle of pine branches
would come under siege from invading
marauders. Out to steal my fortunes and my
daughter, the enemy would attack from all
sides and at full force. Fending them off long
enough to make an escape, we would rush to
safety within the deep forest cover. Escorted
by loyal knights perched atop giant steeds,
we run well into the night. Steam rises from
the horses’ backs and bellows from their
flared nostrils with every breath. Overcome
with exhaustion, we rest on beds of leaves
deep within the forest.
On another day, I’m flying over France in a
troop carrier. I can hardly hear the jumpmaster’s
orders over the deafening drone of the
plane’s engines. I jump from the plane just
like Grandpa and Mr. Pettigrew did, my
parachute opens and I drift gently down,
straight into the face of the enemy. We hit
the ground shooting. The troops gather for a
final assault and easily overrun the enemy’s
position. A marching band escorts the war
heroes back to the house and we feast on
Mrs. Pettigrew’s homemade cookies.
My carefree adventures in that small
woodlot are long behind me now. My
Grandma and Grandpa have also passed on.
The memories of my journeys and my
Grandma’s words, however, have not faded
with time’s passing. And this old farm stood;
the hot summer sun cooking all that was
scorched long ago. A seeming failure to
some, but in the eyes of a young boy it was
an oasis – a place where a boy could make
memories to last a lifetime. It goes to show
you that my grandma was right: the biggest
things in life can be found in the smallest of
places.
Thomas Holbrook
42

Uncertain
One more day gone,
Ten thousand thoughts passed.
Not sure where it all leads,
Hearing no voice, seeing no signs.
Thoughts run
But in no particular direction.
A prayer for more time,
A request for the sun to stop,
A desire for the moment to linger.
A glimpse of an answer, but fathoms away,
Short-lived, it quickly fades.
Fighting this battle with an unknown end,
Requiring a faith that can see no victory.
Heather Cox
Unbound Chains
Occupied
The working watchman
Witnessed every visitor
But the rising sun.
Miriam Easterling
Open the door, and take a peek inside;
if you believe you are truly ready.
You cannot fool a fool, or try to hide,
the dry salt of tears on lips unsteady.
Quivering brows, like a sail with slight wind.
Daring to hope but afraid to let go,
walking a dusty hallway with no end.
On a mildewed fall breeze, memories blow—
by, on faded, empty yearbook pages.
A life buried, a credential the tomb.
A job with popularity wages
where the tainted ladder leads from the womb.
Life after death, the decayed promised land,
lies beyond the door, opposite we stand.
Dawn Henderson
43

HONORABLE MENTION
STATEWIDE POETRY CONTEST
What We Can and Cannot Do, Or Be
This morning I heard Jascha Heifitz
double-stopping through the Brahms in D Major.
Such god-like sounds can make anyone
believe. Such virtuosic scales! What
arpeggios! I cannot hum the theme
for you because my tin ear can only
love, not reproduce. Nor could I
build a bridge, but the sight of
the great steel wings that span the
East River or the Seine or the Mississippi
make me want to know every civil
engineer alive. And each time I see
the prayerful hands that Dürer
cut from wood and engraved on
sixteenth-century paper without
benefit of a computer, I give
thanks despite not being able
to draw my own child with any
verisimilitude. And though my neighbors’
hollyhocks and anemones and bearded iris
outshow my wispy penstemon and marigolds
all summer, I and my black thumb
are pleased to fill a small vase each day.
I know, too, as I write this poem
that it won’t become what I’d hoped,
yet I was only sixteen when
"Ode on a Grecian Urn" put me
me into a deep swoon, and I learned
then—finally and for the first time—
what it meant to fall in love.
Sandra Eisdafer
44

Tidings of Comfort and Joy
The animals made noises when she screamed,
One part of this divine night unforeseen,
Led to this place by some uncertain grace,
Now dirt, and sweat, and hair clung to her face.
The smell was almost more than she could stand;
She clenched her teeth and her husband’s hand,
Wishing for this moment to quickly pass,
More pain and screams, her body could not last,
Then one more forceful moan led to delight
And peace, and rest, an almost silent night.
Tracy Ray
Joyful Mystery #2
The Visitation of Mary to Elizabeth as recorded in Lk. 1:39-56
Her baby leapt at words not clearly heard,
And she wakes crying in the darkened room
To recognize the Church and holy Word,
To praise the promised fruit and blessed womb.
But here my meditation is not done.
My eye quite plainly sees her rough-hewn bed,
But yet the Virgin’s voice remains unknown;
And benedicta tu…. is never said.
The eyes confuse and ev’rything is masked.
The silence makes the vision faded, pale.
A single sense can never meet the task.
The beads more wood than mystery reveal.
Liven the scene, send forth the Virgin’s call,
To make the sign the sign and thing in all.
Nick Tillman
45

The Beginnings of Whatever is to be
She sat in the breezeway of her
apartment complex, watching the patterns
of smoke rising and twirling and dancing
in the current of the night air. The rays
from the street light shone just enough to
make the smoke seem to glow. At some
moments it appeared as if it were being
sucked out of the tunnel, and at other it
appeared to dance witchingly over her
head, glimmering in and out of the rays of
light. She put her cigarette up to her lips
and focused in on the red flare at its tip.
She sat comfortably aware of the way the
light generated by the flame made her face
appear almost iridescent. The complex
was mostly still, yet she sat with her arms
crossed within reach of the door.
A shadow emerged from around the
corner, “Please don’t walk this way,” she
thought. A man emerged from the shadows
and strolled down the breezeway in
her direction. He was an average looking
man, but she thought his shoes appeared
too big for his feet. “Please don’t speak to
me, “ she thought. The man did not hesitate
in his pace when he walked by, but he
looked at the cigarette dangling between
her fingers and said, “You know that causes
cancer” She cut her eyes at him and
said, “Thanks, you just saved my life.”
His legs continued moving him past until
she couldn’t see his face, but she could
almost see his expression through the
back of his head.
The man’s comment sent her into a
whirl of thoughts, an analytical flaw she
liked to call “mind-spinny-syndrome.”
“Why can’t people mind their own damn
business” she commented to herself. “I
just wanna be able to sit here and smoke
my cigarette without people making random
smart-ass comments.” She began to
wonder how she looked to the man. What
he thought of her. She often contemplated
people’s perception of her. She didn’t
want to seem uptight and rigid. “Why do I
always have to do that” she questioned
herself. She didn’t like the way this line
of thinking was headed, so she stood up
and trudged towards her door.
It couldn’t be seen in the dark, but
Ellie Mills had shockingly green eyes and
unruly chestnut curls that lingered around
her shoulders. Her face was quite pretty,
and her cheeks would always reveal when
she was happy by turning into soft pink
roses. She was of typical height and
stature, and nothing about her countenance
particularly stood out. Except for
her hands. They were abnormally small
for her body, almost like the hands of a
child.
Inside of her apartment was an
extravagant display of the works of various
painters and photographers. They
ranged from renaissance paintings to the
pictures she framed from her little brother’s
trip to Disney World. Ellie surrounded
herself with color. None of her furniture
exactly matched, but in its randomness, it
all seemed to flow together like a collage.
Her eyes centered in on the kitchen table,
where there was a clump of clay waiting
to be transformed into something significant.
She dreaded what she had to do, but
she moved towards the table. She stood
gawking at the clay with an air of defiance.
As she mentally prepared herself to
sit down and get started, she jumped a little
and grabbed her chest at the sound of
the doorbell. Without waiting for the
usual “come in,” Leah Johnson, ordinary
looking and outspoken, strolled into the
apartment nonchalantly. Leah’s stringy
blond hair was slightly damp from the
shower, and she wore green sweat pants, a
white tee-shirt, and pink flip-flops.
“You gave me a heart attack,” Ellie
exaggerated.
“Sorry. Wanna go smoke a cigarette”
“Yeah, wait a minute, I just came in.
46

Close the door, you’re letting in the bugs.”
Leah rolled her eyes and pulled the
door shut.
“Haven’t you heard of the West Nile
virus”
“Oh, God, is that the latest item on
Ellie’s list of things to worry about”
Leah plopped on the couch.
“Did you know that you might not
even get any symptoms You just get bit,
and a week later you’re dead.”
“So anyway.” rolling her eyes,
“What are you up to”
“Getting started on that sculpture
for Sullivan’s class.”
“You still haven’t done that yet”
“Well I’ve been thinking about what
to do.”
“Do a dog for God’s sake, Who
cares Just make something.”
“It’s not that easy Leah.”
“Yes it is. You should have kept the
monkey you made first. It was cute.”
“I hated that stupid monkey.”
“Well it was better than that lump
of clay you got sittin’ in there now.” She
gestured toward the kitchen table.
Ellie turned her attention toward
the clay. She began to visualize what it
looked like. Her mind began to twist the
clay, until it appeared to be the face of a
Mongol. It had the grin of the devil, and
the eyes of a tiger waiting to pounce.
“Ellie.” No response.
“Ellie.” Leah got up and waved her
hand in front of Ellie’s face, disrupting her
enchanted gaze. “Earth to Ellie!”
She snapped out of it. “Yeah” Her
lips curved upward into a slightly embarrassed
smile. Her self-conscious chuckle
slipped out of her lips. Again began the
“mind-spinny-syndrome.” “I hate when I
do that. Harharhar,” she murmured the
despised embarrassed laughter to herself.
“Shut up, brain.”
Noticing the annoyance on Ellie’s
face, Leah insisted that they go outside
and smoke a cigarette. They stepped out
and Ellie resumed her position in the
white lawn chair beside the door. Leah
stood leaning on the cool bricks of the
breezeway.
“You’re gonna catch a cold with
that wet hair,” said Ellie admonishingly.
Leah yet again rolled her eyes.
“It’s September hun.”
“But still.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Leah lit a
cigarette.
Ellie pulled out her pack and withdrew
one of the beloved “cancer sticks,”
as her mother liked to call them. She
frowned at the thought of her mother’s
persistent reprimands. “Ellie, get your act
together; Ellie, you need to quit smoking;
Ellie, bla bla bla.” “And she wonders why
I never call home,” she thought.
She put the cigarette to her lips and
flicked her lighter. “Ah, sweet nicotine,
seep into my veins,” she said. Her arms
relaxed and fell dramatically to her sides.
“Damn girl, you needed that one,
didn’t you” Leah laughed and shook her
head.
“Oh yeah,” Ellie said with a grin.
They smoked in silence for a
moment, and then Leah began her frivolous
ramblings about how big of a jerk her
boyfriend was. After a minute of listening
without interest, Ellie’s mind drifted somewhere
else. She began to picture what
she could possibly make out of the clay.
She imagined butterflies, flowers and
other miscellaneous images of idealism,
but knew that her hands were incapable of
creating these things. The image of the
Mongol crept in again, and she shivered a
little. “Why in the world would I see
something evil like that in a pile of clay
What’s wrong with me” The self-criticisms
persisted until finally she stomped
out her cigarette and explained to Leah
that she had to go in and work on her
sculpture, and that she would see her
47

tomorrow. Leah gave her a hug and left.
Ellie returned to the kitchen table.
She hadn’t been able to sit and eat there
for a week because of the clay monstrosity.
She sunk her tiny fingers into the clay,
and squeezed it. “There, I made a sculpture
of squished clay,” she thought. The
other voice, the voice of an annoying little
imp poking you with a stick manifested
itself again. “La la la I can’t hear you,”
she sang in her head to drown out the imp.
She laughed out loud at the thought of
what she was doing.
The ring of the telephone halted her
laughter. At first annoyed by the intrusion,
she realized she was glad for the
interruption, and reached across the table
for the cordless phone.
“Hello”
“Hey, how’s it going” It was the
voice of her little brother. She suddenly
realized that yesterday was his tenth
birthday, and felt guilty for not remembering.
She tried to repair the damage.
“Hey, happy birthday!” she said.
“Thanks,” he said. “Where’s my
present”
“Oh I’ll bring it when I come home
next time,” wincing to herself. She knew
that she had to play it cool so she
wouldn’t hurt his feelings.
As she talked, she continued
squishing the clay between her fingers,
molding and unmolding, stretching it and
balling it up and squeezing it some more.
“Well what are you doing” she
asked.
“Playing with my legos.”
“Oh cool, what are you building”
“I don’t know, just something,” he
said.
She continued talking to him, listening
as he told her about school, his
teacher, recess today, on and on. She contemplated
on how simple his life must be.
No worries, just 2+2=4 and then running
around on the playground. She was
always such a worrier. She’d cry if she
spilled her Kool-Aid, for crying out loud.
“Well mom says I have to go now.
She said call her tomorrow.”
“Okay, I will. Be good.”
“I will, bye.” He hung up the
phone.
Ellie pushed the off button on her
phone and rested it on the table. She
looked back at the wad of clay, and as she
reached to continue squishing it, she realized
that a monkey stared back at her. A
monkey with its hand on its chin.
“A thinking monkey,” she thought.
“Perfect.” She smirked at the irony of the
situation, rolled her eyes, and went outside
for a smoke.
Jamie Peterson
48

Strawberry Magdalene
Bury me in pillows, and toss your hair
Sometimes the rules seems so unfair
Please don’t forget to blow out the candle.
Incense altered, my mind’s been battered.
And everything you’ve meant to me
Nothing I can say, I’ll ever repeat
Now my strawberry Magdalene.
The king is dead in the back the truck,
One time’s arrow fate found its luck.
The wax has dripped onto the carpet,
Your flame melts my words into meaning.
So who I am, am I the one
Perfume between your two towers,
Pink blaze of thistle flowers
In your fragile fingers, lowers.
Those longs weeks apart, driving the night.
The Highway blackness saturates my wings
Like Oil slick beaches in a sea gulls mind,
The letter can’t write and the spirit can’t sing.
Of all the arrows in this war,
It was the coward’s frightful single blow,
Threw down his father’s bloody sword,
Pulled back his bow, then let it go.
Ben Snyder
Wilting rose petals
curled and shamed from lost glory,
litter lovers’ bed.
Jamie Peterson
Love
Bright lights forever
Or just passing, sporadic
twinkles in the dark.
Jamie Fisher
49

Carolina Winter Memory
Awakening to pine trees in the silent morning
tall above the stinging ice on the windowpane
of our blue bedroom
big sting means heavy coat
light sting means jeans jacket
My brother’s rusty chevy truck belching steam
out into the gravel driveway
where forever seemed to arrive
before that inline 6 cylinder
was warm enough to drive
Bears take a long nap
Snow drifts pile in mounds and heaps,
All life needs to rest.
Jamie Bunn
Ice in the muddy Yadkin River
or Big Elkin Creek
sliding sluggishly along lonesome banks
before cashing in for change
and moving downstream
Snow’d lanes on Highway 77, driving home
for Christmas to Ma’s eggnog and ripple shots
of Bacardi to ensure yourself
against the cold, empty Christmas night
Everywhere white haze on cowpaths
repainting streets, trees, power-lines
and rooftops with smoking chimneys
telling old stories of warm oak fires inside
above the silence of deer grazing
on dry corn feed
under the apple trees
in the valley behind out place
The Tops
The Tops of mountains
Shadow in Valleys enclosed
By snow capped summits
James Meadows
and the pine trees whisper night songs
in the wind, with no telling
where they’re going
or the snowstar dreams they’ve seen.
Neil Myers
50

The Ride Home (Telling Fragments)
Crisp snowy mountains
shelter roots of tall green pines.
Wolves howling echo.
Jamie Peterson
1
Each light along the way
was steeped in a fog its own.
The moon was the bottom of an empty cup.
You read its dim deposited leaves
and said "Cold" like an answer.
2
The wind wastes itself endlessly,
as ribbon and ribbons lose themselves,
twist into infinite endlesses.
Though we think the wind is absolute
the doldrums occupy, still preoccupy us.
3
The winter night breathes in, breathes out.
I feel its swell and press -
the cool impermeable skin of night.
G.S. Morris
The sun shines so bright,
All living things reproduce,
Store now for cold morns.
Jamie Bunn
51

HONORABLE MENTION
STUDENT POETRY CONTEST
Father James
Joyous Verse
If blind, I could still see the world
Through languid eyes,
Barring a nickel or a dime,
Internal, external, half divine
Sense or a scene, at least,
Not without the Bard (in good company)
Finished again to wake from sleep dreams,
A poor trait of our tests and paradigms.
(You) List these like they chose the night,
But not without tension wrought by harmony
Nor a brisk pace through time and space
With a face as cold as Greek tragedy
Could one yield such power of the mind, or a pen.
And yet a power I risk not, for I see
That it would be to declare
On a Culture (steeped in)
Dead! All! Us! And you
Or them perhaps Him (as a hero) yet unfurled.
Daniel Parsons
52

The Rime of a Devout and Holy Friar
Come from the table Mariner.
Yea hearken to my tale.
But so that we may not be heard,
Let’s to my hidden cell.
Eight years I’d spent in fervent prayer
And penance for my sins.
That night I knelt with special care
Before my altar when
Powerful pounding at the port
Disrupting Evensong;
A subtle assault on our fort
By Stranger knocking strong.
I opened up the heavy door,
And he began to speak.
He said he was a pilgrim poor
Who wished a place to sleep.
We brought him to the common room
To wash his muddied feet.
Beneath the dirt, appeared two wounds
A sight that made me weep.
Those feet I knew and Stranger’s name,
He was our saintly head.
I thought perhaps my answer came
To prayers eight years been said.
His eyes still brightly showed the flames
That framed the seraph’s wings.
He to us all that bore his name
Divulged the secret things.
O Mariner your eyes like his
Burn free with godly fire.
And he, as thee, by Nature’s kiss,
To Heaven did aspire.
I tell you this so you will know
’Twas he that grace on thee bestowed.
And he to thee sent snakes to bless,
So you could find eternal rest.
Nick Tillman
Black and White
Ink five seven five.
Black and white speaks eternal.
Poetry lives on.
Quasi-ku
False haiku abounds
Unnatural, rhyming sounds
Disapproval resounds
Tentacle Mask
Joshua Shelton
Lisa Haddock
That which is at once a salve
as well as branding cinder,
can from kind and gentle hearts
their skeletons surrender.
Beautiful at first it seems
with pledges of devotion,
soon discloses its true face
devoid of all emotion.
Tentacles twist ‘round and ‘round
with no hope of retreating,
wrap around the battered hearts
and stop their labored beating.
Thomas Holbrook
53

Mayre’s Height
Intense fire directed
against uncountable ants
on the plain below.
A blue tide sweeping—
Receding;
Wasting to untidy debris.
Fredricksburg
December, 1862
Charles Toptin
Ants
The stream of ants that I watched
sweep around the tall baseboard
last night had slowed to a
trickle by morning.
I strained my eyes against
the blurry smear of sleep,
could only spot two of the
tiny creatures, miles apart
in the dusty waste scape
until a third clamped onto
the soft of my foot,
perhaps their martyred hero.
I cannot but wonder what dried in the living cord
that stretched from kitchen to dining room crevice,
that escape to the vast outside.
I noted the white bundles pressed to their backs,
but could not discern between food and children.
I imagine it was some towering insects, standing
tall as pylons, herding them into dark tunnels of slavery
that wiped them clean away,
or was it me, stooped over my broom, in the murky light
Matthew Sganga
54

Every Time the Door is Opened
My sister moved back with my parents;
went to work serving eggs
sunny-side up before daybreak,
so the neighborhood do-gooder
hauled my three nieces
to Vacation Bible School and,
for a short time after that,
to church and Sunday School—
every Sunday—
them spit-shined and polished
as well as Mama’s half-blind eyes
could make them,
the nickels Daddy doled out,
clutched in their tight and sweaty fists,
and spilling forth from their mouths
like pearls before swine,
the story of the dollars
Mama and Daddy had hidden
underneath their mattresses;
and in their innocence, my nieces
mulitiplied those dollars like fishes;
spilled forth—every Sunday—more stories,
picked and prodded for, and they fabricated
what they thought she wanted to hear—
every Sunday—
until the welfare lady came,
cut off Mama and Daddy’s check;
said someone had tipped her off
that they weren’t needy.
Nancy King
The Second Winter After My Father’s Death
Seven large red-tailed hawks
perch on naked limbs outside my window.
One lifts to arc across the sky,
its wings scarring winter blue.
My four-month-old daughter chirps
from her seat on the counter,
her legs are constant motion,
they kick off the blanket nested around her.
She watches my face as I scan the sky,
her emerald eyes rise to mine.
The airborn hawk settles on a branch,
its silhouette hunched like the back of an old man.
The baby moans her discontent
with our sedentary lives. To end
her cacophony of noises I wave
a rattle and her fingers curl around it.
We move to the couch.
I place her on my knees.
She wriggles her body,
cycles her legs and flutters her hands.
She tries out different expressions, tugs
on an ear and pouts her lower lip.
I wipe bubbles of drool from her mouth
as she grunts and shrieks and laughs.
I search for the hawks
but the trees are bare,
except for a few brown and wrinkled leaves,
remains of a long ago summer.
My daughter, tired of lying around,
reaches for my hand, converses in coos.
She can’t yet crawl, but I believe
she’s ready to fly.
Anne Campanella
55

WINNER
STUDENT PROSE CONTEST
Shelman’s Pier
Kerrson sat gazing wistfully at the
approaching clouds. The colors of the
night sky were a splendid montage of
beauty, which masked the severe weather
threatening the coast front. The remaining
local residents scurried along the
roadways and sidewalks trying to secure
their property and themselves before the
storm ensued. Their woeful expressions
amused Kerrsen as she sat, immersed in
serenity on Shelman’s Pier. She would
not flee. To her, the imminent progress
was a splendid game. She watched each
cloud taking its own checkerboard leap
across the night sky as if to pronounce
impending defeat for the South Carolina
coastal front. Kerrsen thought to herself
about how easily the coast had given up
and now she alone was left to face the
relentless clouds.
“It will be a test of my strength,”
she announced rather loudly. The feebleness
of her own voice amid the wind and
crashing waves surprised her.
“You will be a worthy adversary
but I have strength beyond measure
somewhere, I know I do, and I will defeat
you. I will conquer all else that faces
me,” Kerrsen yelled across the ocean to
the clouds. She was now standing, gripping
the wooden railing as though it were
the only thing keeping her from lurching
forward to battle the clouds in some sort
of medieval joust.
The waves crashed heavily into the
pier rocking its very foundation and the
mist sprayed Kerrsen as if to warn her
that it was only the beginning. She
would not concede to his force or any
force. Too much had happened for her to
give up now.
“I will be victorious!” Her eyes
narrowed in defiance as she thought
about the previous year. Her thoughts
drifted to the classroom and first episode.
She had not eaten for quite a few days
due to the nausea she felt probably
resulting from the flu. When she has
passed out, she was not surprised.
Everyone else had been so worried, handling
her like some sort of valuable
porcelain doll. The image amused her. A
porcelain doll, she laughed to herself, as
she pictured the tan doll with dark brown
hair and green eyes that would look like
her.
The wind crashed into her face,
her hair suddenly veiling her sight.
Reaching with her right hand to tame the
brown tangled mess, she became painfully
aware of the ashen color of her skin.
Spreading out her five fingers in the front
of her face, Kerrsen studied the pale
grayish color. Maybe she had become
more like a porcelain doll than she realized.
No! She would not accept the
thought.
“This is only a result of this dreadful
damp weather,” she reasoned. The
waves crashed against the pier again and
the spray covered her face in little
droplets. This time, however, Kerrsen
was unable to determine if the moisture
on her face derived from the spray of the
ocean or her own tears. Sitting down,
she gazed at the waves crashing beneath
her. Following the waves retreat to the
coastline, she came face to face with her
opponent once again.
The clouds moved slowly, but
relentlessly towards the coast. Brenda
56

Granger peered through the window of
her small ocean front condo. She
watched as the wind blew the small covered
table outside on her porch. Two
chairs had already succumbed to its
power and now rested near the beginning
of Shelman’s Pier.
“That is almost 500 yards away,”
Brenda Granger thought, “How very
strong this storm will be!” The thought
excited her. Mrs. Granger wanted the
storm to be the worst that had ever hit
the coast as the forecaster had predicted.
“Horace,” she sighed longingly,
“you would have loved this. The name
you hated will now be remembered forever.”
The wedding picture on the mantel
across the room caught her attention.
How happy they looked, like they had
their whole lives ahead of them. Who
would have known that it would only be 9
months before she would be left here all
alone Not after today, she would be with
him again, she was sure of it.
“Hurricane Horace will soon be
reaching the coastal areas of Georgia and
South Carolina.” The forecaster had stated
on Tuesday. She had been in the
kitchen fixing some lunch when she
heard the name. It had startled her,
causing her to drop the pot of spaghetti
on the floor. In that moment, she was
certain of its meaning. Her beloved
Horace was returning and this time she
would go with him.
A plastic chair crashed against the
side of the deck drawing her attention
back out the window to the shore. The
chair blew off the deck in the direction of
the pier. Out of the corner of her eye, she
noticed a figure towards the higher end
of the pier.
“Some poor dog probably left by his
owner in the rush.” She thought and
briefly debated walking out there to help
it off the pier. Distracting her, the wind
whipped the cloth top off the table.
“I must go get ready. He will be
here soon,” she said as she giggled like a
schoolgirl. “If the dog is still out there
when I return, then I will go help it, but
now there is no time to waste.”
The waves crashed harder against
the coastline and seemed to devour the
shore. Shelman’s Pier at its highest
point was now only about ten feet about
the waves. Kerrsen was certain it was
the perfect place to withstand the storm.
Shelman’s Pier was notorious because it,
alone, had survived every treat to its
existence for over 50 years now.
“We are so much alike,” Kerrsen
spoke to the wooden slabs beneath her,
“neither one of us needs anyone or anything
and nothing will ever deter us!”
Her husband and friends had wanted
her to turn to them for support after
the first diagnosis but she had refused
their condolences. The diagnosis was
false, even after the second and third
opinions; she would still not accept it.
How weak they all were to her, especially
Brandon. He was supposed to be her
“other half” and he already given in.
How could he do that How could he
believe the doctors over her Didn’t she
know her own body better than anyone
How furious she was with him! Her eyes
narrowed at the memory of his words.
“Kerrsen, you cannot ignore this,
you just can’t,” he had pleaded with her,
“I can’t and I won’t. So, just stop lying
to yourself!”
“Lying! Ha!” She thought, her eyes
widening in disbelief. That was the last
straw for her. She did not need him. It
was over. He could finish Law School on
his own. It had been their dream together
but now she no longer wanted to have
anything to do with them.
“Them,” the very word was ugly to
her now. That’s exactly what her profes-
57

sors, friends, and her husband were to
her now: “them”, completely separated
from her. She wanted it that way.
Kerrsen had resigned herself to the fact
that she did now need anyone.
Down the shoreline, Brenda
Granger was stepping into the dress she
had bought for her honeymoon. She
remembered the way Horace’s mouth had
dropped when he first saw her across the
room. The reaction was exactly what she
had wanted.
“He will be so thrilled to see it
again,” she thought gazing into the mirror
preparing to put on her make up. She
wondered if she could even remember
how to do it since it had been so long.
Once Horace died she lost the desire to
dress up. He was all that mattered to her
and had always been. Not many people
marry their childhood sweetheart but she
had known she would from the moment
she laid eyes on him. He was her life.
With him, any love inside of her had died.
No longer could she feel any emotion for
anyone. When he was gone, all she had
left was just her own self and she could
not even care about that. He meant the
world to her. It was completely natural
being with him.
“Natural,” she reasoned, “yes, that
explains it exactly and the past seven 7
months have been completely unnatural.”
Looking in the mirror, she applied
the black mascara to her lashes. The
last time she had worn mascara was so
long ago. The events of the day came
flooding back to her.
Nancy had answered the phone at
work.
“Brenda,” she had called across
the waiting room, “your hubby is on line
1.”
“He probably wants to take me to
dinner,” she had replied with a wink.
When she picked up the phone, though,
the voice on the other end was not
Horace’s.
“Brenda, this is Deputy Rueben,”
came the voice of Horace’s former college
roommate and longtime friend. The seriousness
of his voice had frightened her.
“Brenda, you know I hate to be the
one to have to make this phone call but I
thought you would want to hear…”
“Hear what What What are you
trying to tell me” Her tone was very
abrupt.
“Well, honey, there was a bad
wreck on 301 and Horace was involved,”
there was an awkward pause then he continued,
“and ummm well, gosh honey, the
paramedics did the best they could but it
was too late. He went almost instantly.
Oh Brenda, I am so sorry. If there is anything
I…”
She had not heard him finish. The
phone slipped through her fingers, banging
against the counter doors. Covering
her face with her hands she slid to the
floor. She remembered seeing the
smudges of black mascara on her fingers.
Looking in the mirror again she
observed a solitary tear roll down her
face leaving a faint black trace.
Grabbing a tissue, she wiped the tear
from her face. She need not cry. Horace
would be there soon.
Applying a last stroke of lipstick,
she stood up and walked towards the window.
The dog was still there.
“Looks like I have to do one more
good deed before I go, Horace,” she said
as she stepped out the door into the wind,
glancing back at the cottage she knew
would soon be gone.
The wind was slapping into the
wooden pier supports with such force that
the thud echoed over the water. The
waves hounded the shore with explosive
might and the ground seemed to shake
with the impact. Though no thunder was
58

present, the sounds of the wind and
waves alone seemed to rock the oceanfront
with an engulfing roar.
“Excuse me,” the voice cut through
Kerrsen’s thoughts dragging her back to
the pier where she sat now completely
soaked. She turned to see a woman
dressed in a floor length black evening
gown. The image surprised her and for
just a moment she assumed she was in
fact hallucinating.
“You cannot stay out here,” the
woman warned Kerrsen.
“What are you still doing out her
then,” Kerrsen responded rather snidely.
She almost laughed as she answered.
Something was obviously wrong with this
woman. What kind of person wears an
evening gown in the middle of a hurricane
Brenda Granger stared at the
young woman in front of her. Why was
she trying to help her All she wanted to
do was return to her home and wait for
Horace. She needed him, and only him.
However, she found herself continuing to
urge the woman to leave the pier.
“Please, at least come to my house
and dry yourself off. You will catch your
death out her like that.”
Kerrsen’s response was short and
bitter, “Please just go away and let me
be.”
The storm was becoming unbearable
now. The wind howled and the rain
poured. Mrs. Granger was certain her
makeup was smeared down her face. She
was upset at the thought of how she must
look now but she could not leave this girl
out here. Through the rain she noticed a
small diamond and wedding band on the
girl’s finger. How lucky she must be to
have a husband. Soon she too would
have her husband again.
“Your husband must be very worried,”
she said to the girl, “and you probably
need to call him. If you come back
to my house, you can call him, if the lines
are still up, and let him know where you
are and that you are fine.”
“I am not calling him,” Kerrsen
had to yell at the woman now because the
wind and rain had become so overbearing.
Worried, Kerrsen thought, he probably
was worried. He was so weak.
“If you will just come to my house
for just a moment and at least dry off,”
Mrs. Granger was now becoming frustrated
with the girl’s stubborn attitude, “I
promise I will let you alone after that.
You may go do whatever you want to.”
Kerrsen did not want to leave the
pier but she had to get rid of this woman.
She nodded her head reluctantly and
stood. The rain and wind stung her face.
She followed the woman off the pier and
down the shore to a small well kept cottage.
The inside looked untouched
except for a few things scattered haphazardly
across the living room. A pair of
men’s dress shoes was on the floor by the
door and a pipe sat in the ashtray on the
coffee table. A well-pressed man’s dress
shirt hung from the door near the hallway.
“Where is your husband” Kerrsen
called to the woman who had now disappeared
down the hall.
“I could ask you the same question,”
the woman responded appearing in
the hallway with a towel. She handed it
to Kerrsen, and then walked over to the
mantel. She chose a frame from the display.
Horace looked so handsome in this
one and she knew this is how he would
look today. She walked back over to
where Kerrsen sat and handed her the
picture.
“That is my husband, Horace,” she
smiled proudly, “He died in a car wreck
but he will be coming back to me.
Tonight, he will, I know he will.”
“I am sorry,” Kerrsen did not know
what else to say. The woman’s state-
59

ments frightened her.
Mrs. Granger walked across the
room and sat down next to Kerrsen on
the couch. Kerrsen returned the picture
to her. She took it in her hands and
hugged it to her chest.
“No need for sorry,” she replied,
“What about your husband”
“He is back at our house. I left
him. He would not be strong and I could
not stand his weakness.” She did not
know why she was sharing so much with
this stranger. “I…I…well…they, the doctors,
diagnosed me with leukemia about
six months ago. They said nothing could
be done but they were wrong. He
believed them. How could he do that to
me”
Mrs. Granger slipped her arm
around Kerrsen’s shoulders and hugged
her close.
“I do not need anyone,” Kerrsen
stated pulling away.
She stood up and crossed the room
to the window. Outside was now completely
dark and she could only make out
the silhouettes of trees bending in the
wind. The rain pelted the window so violently,
she felt as though any moment the
glass would surely shatter into pieces. It
was time for her to face the storm.
Mrs. Granger rose from the couch
and strolled to the mantel. There, she lit
a solitary candle.
Turning towards Kerrsen, she
reached for the towel that was now
draped across Kerrsen’s shoulders. The
contact startled Kerrsen. Taking the
towel into the kitchen, Mrs. Granger
placed it on the sink and then returned to
the living room.
“Horace and I met when we were
both five. It was in kindergarten,” she
said easing back down onto the couch.
She gathered her dress in her hands, running
the material between her index finger
and thumb.
“He was my best friend and
boyfriend from that point on. Believe it
or not, I never dated anyone else. He
went to college and as soon as he graduated
we were married,” her eyes twinkled
as she spoke.
Kerrsen now stood facing her. The
look on Mrs. Granger’s face puzzled
Kerrsen. Her eyes shown with happiness
but such an utter sadness seemed to
linger there somewhere below the surface.
At that moment, there was a loud
crack behind Kerrsen. Startled, she
turned to see what had made such a
noise, but the power went out and she
could see nothing, but the reflection of
the flickering candle behind her on the
mantel.
“My husband,” she started, “was
an undergrad at Clemson when I first met
him. He was so intelligent and driven. It
was love at first sight.”
Kerrsen could not believe now she
had forgotten the way she felt when she
first met Brandon. How she had loved
him. The thought made her sad suddenly.
Sighing, she walked away from the window
and slumped down on the couch
beside Mrs. Granger.
“I just can’t be with him now. He
is not who I thought he was,” she
shrugged staring at her feet. Her white
tennis shoes were probably filthy now be
she could not tell in the dark.
“Horace was exactly who I thought
he was. He was everything I could ever
want. He was the only person who was
there for me no matter what. I loved him
so very much and when he died so did all
the love inside of me. All I feel now is
numb, utterly and completely numb,” her
voice cracked as she spoke.
“You cannot give up on your life,”
Kerrsen said reaching over to clasp Mrs.
Granger’s hands in hers, “Somewhere
inside of you there is still love. You just
have to allow yourself to accept the truth
60

and let go.”
As Kerrsen spoke, the words
stung. She felt a deep persistent ache
inside of her. She could no longer fight
the pain. She dropped to her knees on
the floor and began to sob. Mrs. Granger
knelt beside her and wrapped her arms
around her, rocking her gently as she
spoke.
“Horace and I had an amazing
love. I still feel him here. I guess he
will always be with me.” As she spoke
the tears begain to roll down her face,
“He loved me like no one else ever could.
I fear I will never know that kind of love.
I needed him. I do need him. I…I…I…”
her voice trailed off.
She had now commenced to sobbing,
her arms still wrapped around
Kerrsen. As they sat on the floor, they
held tight to each other. The sounds of
sadness echoed throughout the room.
The wind outside clanged again the windowpanes.
The waves crashed loudly
against the shore but inside the cottage
no attention was paid to the storm.
The candle burnt out and darkness
cloaked the room but neither woman
noticed. Hours passed like seconds without
notice. Only the storm dared intrude
on the silence. As the night continued,
both women settle on the floor. Neither
spoke, nor even occasionally made eye
contact, too immersed in thought to
notice the other. The rain tapered off and
the wind only sporadically howled at the
windows.
Rays of sunlight began to penetrate
the darkened cottage, illuminating
the two women. Brenda looked up at the
sunlight. Silently, she whispered the
word, “Goodbye.”
“I think the storm has passed,” she
said, now staring across the room at the
shirt hanging from the coat closet doorknob.
She had ironed it the night before
Horace had died. He had not chosen to
wear it and had hung it there.
“The phone might work now, if you
want to use it,” she said to Kerrsen as
she rose from where she knelt. Grasping
the shirt in her hands, she took it off the
doorknob and placed it on the couch, near
the ashtray and pipe. Then, she went
over to the door and picked up the shoes
near the door and positioned them beside
the shirt.
Kerrsen watched her from where
she still sat on the floor. Brenda folded
the shirt and then sat down on the couch.
She placed the folded shirt on her lap and
began to smooth it over with the palms of
her hands.
Kerrsen, watching Brenda, rose
from the floor. Wiping away the tears,
she strolled across the room to the phone
located on the table beside the window.
Picking it up, she stared down at the
numbers on the phone and ran her fingers
across the buttons. Placing it back on
the hook, she brushed her hair from her
face and directed her attention out the
window. The clouds were now gone and
the sky was clear blue. The waves rolled
peacefully onto the shore. And down the
beach, she could see the pieces of wood
and debris now floating in the water
where Shelman’s Pier no longer stood.
Jamie Fisher
61

The Miraculous Parchment
"The cloak that I left at Troas with Carpus, when thou comest, bring with thee, and the
books, but especially the parchments." 2 Tim. 4:13
Was it the skin of some sacrificial lamb
that made the medium of the gospel,
or just of some plain heifer or homely sheep
The apostle must have pressed the precious pages to his chest
without thinking of animal skin or human
unless, in prayer, of the transmuted skin of the lacerated Christ,
perhaps praying for one last miracle.
It is not recorded in any book or held in any tradition
how, after the blade had struck its block, the women
took away the apostle’s body, how they reverently set aside the bloody cloak,
how they undressed him and were astonished.
They had seen on the sanctified shroud the Master’s pure pacific face,
his beatified hands; they had touched the unearthly pigment.
Their literacy was the literacy of women: face, hand, touch.
Though they could not see past the symbols, here was another face of the Master
in the neat amanuensis’ pen and some in the apostle’s own large hand,
and all in the same unearthly pigment.
Again they touched, and read what they could in that way.
The Master’s broken body was the church’s nourishment;
and so, in its way, was the apostle’s.
He gave his mind and soul to the Word; in death the Word had his body too.
G.S. Morris
The Consecration of the Poetic Life
Not of chastity
Probably of poverty
Mostly of obedience
To Pope, Bishop, and all the saints gone before
until time is done.
Nick Tillman
62

Contributor’s Notes
Heidi Arnold teaches communication classes and considers writing a rewarding experience. She is from Reidsville,
North Carolina.
Doris Browder Blough, is a South Carolina native, currently residing in Rock Hill, South Carolina. She collects family
stories and began writing poetry in 1989.
Jamie Bunn looks forward to graduating from Campbell in May. She was inspired by the creative writing class to
churn out haikus at a mind-bending speed.
Ann Campanella, is a former magazine and newspaper editor who now enjoys writing poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.
She has won numerous awards for her work and has been often published in literary magazines. Outrunning
the Rain, her poetry collection, will be released soon.
Heather Cox and Lisa Haddock have been a part of The Lyricist staff for two years, and their primary responsibility is
keeping Nick Tillman in line. They are not bitter about being underappreciated. They were not allowed separate contributor’s
notes for fear of coup d’etat.
Ben Currin is a religion major at Campbell. He enjoys taking English classes and writing because he feels that
religion and English go hand in hand.
Matt Doyle sent materials to The Lyricist in absentia. He is a former member of The Lyricist staff whose most noteworthy
contributions were a product of his random bits of intelligence.
Miriam Easterling, a senior double major in French and Mass Communications, has had several close encounters with
Bostonian lawyer wannabes. She likes to keep The Lyricist office tidy.
Sandra Eisdorfer has worked as an editor in the university press world—for Duke, the UNC Press, and for Oxford—
and has published essays and poems in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Sin Fronteras: Writers Without Borders, and
Whole Notes.
Jamie Fisher graduated as a government/history major from Campbell University in 2002. She now enjoys teaching at
several grade levels.
Colleen H. Furr, a retired Language Arts teacher, currently resides in an apartment complex for retirees in Charlotte.
Her work has previously been published in The Lyricist, as well as The Charlotte Poetry Review and other North Carolina
literary magazines.
Dawn Henderson is an English major at Campbell University who likes to play sports but shouldn’t.
Thomas Holbrook is a senior English major at Campbell and a carpenter…He has probably inhaled too much sawdust
from chemically treated wood products.
Anthony Hopkins is a mass communication student at Campbell University.
Jared James is a silent lyrical assassin who believes that words are more powerful than a gat any day of the week. He
would like to give props to God and Mama.
Phyllis Jarvinen is a psychologist working with young children in Cullowhee, North Carolina.
Nancy King lives in Jacksonville, North Carolina, and has been published in Pembroke, Wellspring, GSU, Skylark, Main
Street Rag, and Bay Leaves.
64

Genevieve Kissack, was born and educated in France and currently resides in Charlotte, North Carolina. Her poetry
has been published in The Lyricist and other literary journals.
James Nelson Meadows, Jr. is a long-time Wake County resident and poet who previously spent two years in the
Army Reserves.
Bonnie Michael is a poet and freelance writer who lives in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Her poetry has won local,
state, and national awards. She has been published in Good Housekeeping, as well as literary magazines such as
Appalachian Heritage, The Lyricist, Colonnades, and The Arts Journal.
G.S. Morris actually doesn’t exist. It is just a name we have given to the being that writes anything that mysteriously
appears on the wall in fiery letters.
Neil Myers is an American poet who submitted the poems published this year while living in New Zealand.
Daniel Parsons wants anyone who is interested in going to a James Joyce seminar this summer in Arizona to contact
him at Dedalus05@aol.com. He is such a whore.
Jamie Peterson is a sophomore at Campbell and a Campbell Times editor. She thrilled us all when she decided to take
the creative plunge and try her hand at poetry and prose.
Chris Quinn is a student at Campbell University.
Tasha Romero is an English major and staff member of The Lyricist. We are planning a boycott of Sally’s Beauty
Supply for making her work so much. Everyone knows what those chemicals do to a poetic mind.
Tracy Ray matters.
Matthew Sganga lives in Monroe, North Carolina, with his six-year-old daughter Chloe. He presently works as a chef
in a restaurant named “Sante.”
Scott Shamblee thinks he is a student at Campbell University.
Joshua Shelton is an English major at Campbell with a minor in world domination. Based on his poetry, we can
expect to see him taking over the world soon. He’s an alliterative ace, and notoriously known for penning rhymes
when he should be doing more productive work.
Maureen A. Sherbondy is a wife and mother from Raleigh, North Carolina who has had work published in journals
such as Princeton Arts Review, Dry Creek Review, and Cold Mountain Review.
Ben Snyder, an English major who graduated from Campbell in 2002, enjoys unexplained phenomena such as losing
socks in the dryer and is believed to have been created by the government in some conspiracy to infiltrate the literary
academia.
Angela Lea Sox hails from Alamance County and now lives in Gaston County. She is a teacher at Central Piedmont
Community College in Charlotte.
Nick Tillman is our bold and fearless leader, casting aside the ignorant with his mighty wand of elitism. He sits atop
his lofty throne of antidisestablishmentarianism, borne on the backs of his beatnik poet slaves. ALL HAIL!
Charles Toptin resides in Davidson County and enjoys writing poems about the South.
Stella Whitlock, a wife, mother, and grandmother, has taught English for thirty-nine years at the elementary, secondary,
and college levels. An avid reader and writer, she loves to travel and explore different cultures. Currently, she
teaches writing part-time at Methodist College in Fayetteville, North Carolina.
65