Blackwater Review - Northwest Florida State College

Blackwater Review

Blackwater ReviewA Journal of Literature and ArtVolume 3, No. 1 Spring 2005Okaloosa-Walton CollegeNiceville, Florida

Blackwater Review aims to encourage student writing, student art,and intellectual and creative life at Okaloosa-Walton College byproviding a showcase for meritorious work.Writing Faculty Sponsors:Vickie Hunt, Lucia W. Robinson, Amy RiddellPoetry Consultant: Charles MyersAdministrative Assistant: Rebecca ReidArt Faculty Sponsors:J. B. Cobbs, Benjamin Gillham, Stephen PhillipsLyn Rackley, Karen Valdez, Ann WatersArt Direction and Photography: Benjamin GillhamGraphic Design and Photography: Jennifer Eggers, Riotta ScottAll selections published in this issue are the work of students;they do not necessarily reflect the views of members of theAdministration, Faculty, Staff, District Board of Trustees, orFoundation Board of Okaloosa-Walton College.©2005 Okaloosa-Walton CollegeAll rights are owned by the authors of the selections.Front cover: “Bustie” Emulating Diversity and PluralismRaku fired clayby Rosanna Michelle Boylan

AcknowledgmentsThe sponsors are extremely grateful to Dr. Jill White,Senior Vice President of Okaloosa-Walton College, who madethis issue possible. We thankfully ackowledge the encouragementand support of Dr. James R. Richburg, President, andthe help of Terry Comeau, Manager of Graphic Services, and allthose students, staff members, and instructors who have contributedto, encouraged, and assisted publication.We are grateful also to Christian LaRoche (Mrs.James N. LaRoche), who for nineteen years has sponsoredthe James N. LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest in honorof her late husband. After serving in two armed conflicts,Mr. LaRoche taught in the Communications Department atOkaloosa-Walton Junior College, at the same time developinghis own considerable gift for poetry. The winning poems ofthe contests of recent years are included in this issue.

CONTENTSKareem’s Roti, Ron Frazer 9Growing up Texas, Ron Frazer 18A Dance, LaTisa Anderson 19Game Over, Linda Suzanne C. Borgen 20Paradise Pummeled, Malina Gabriel 21Fallen Star, Luke Schofield 33The Birth of Abstract, Stefanie C. Duurvoort 34Redemption and the Two-Dollar Carnival, Joanna Soria 36Mermaid on the Moon, Joanna Soria 37My Temple Forgotten, Gina Wallace 43Poem for a Straight Girl, Melanie E. Coerver 44Day Lilies, Caitlin Pierson 46You Speak, Caitlin Pierson 47The Astronaut, Sidney Speer 48Who’s Bringing the Ham? Brooke Johnson 51Randomness, Kaitlyn Ducharme 53On the Color of Love, Alison Dunn 55Viking, Abe Toner 56

Silver String, Jessica Paliza 57Since Henry, Sidney Speer 58Medal, Bobby Roy 59Outside In, LaTisa Anderson 60Snow Goose, Caitlin Pierson 61Mississippi Midnight, Caitlin Pierson 83The Rollercoaster, Amber West 84A Crown for Silence, Michael A. Burke 85Group Therapy, Kevin Taylor Ray 87Clifford’s Golden Lions, Luke Schofield 104Pap in Pictures, Malina Gabriel 109Old Stick, Ron Frazer 110At Eddie’s at 9th and Peachtree, Joanna Soria 111Isolationism, Bobby Roy 112Smile, David Hunter 117That One Time, Stephanie Thomas 118The Ones They Don’t Lock Away, Tamara Luthy 119Contributors 125

COLOR PLATESPaul and the Duck, Lynda Cast 67Welcome to My Nightmare, Ian P. Glending 68Paris en Automne, Rusty Adams 69Untitled, “Jericho” Phillip Kilpatrick 70Pablo, Joyce M. Cross 71Crossroads, Paul Lijewski 72Catfish, Max McCann 73Sweet Tangerines, Ana M. Poddubny 74In My Eyes, Megan Recher 75Ivan Deadfall–Palms and Pinecones, Rhoda Ramirez de Arellano 76Guardian Since 1888, Maria B. Morekis 77Stormy Day, Tim Russell 78Daffodils, John Sharratt 79First Earthly Union of Man and Woman, Linda H. King 80Monet, Joan M. Langham 81Galactic Wonderment, Kevin M. Cook 82

Kareem’s RotiRon FrazerMarcus ate a dinner of salt fish, bread and cocoa tea withAgnita’s four children, sitting on the rocks behind her shacklooking west down the hill into the village of Victoria. Beyondthe pastels of the village and the glare of the beach, the Caribbeanwas changing from midday turquoise to deep blues and oranges.Sylvia, his mother, had left early that morning, telling thelittle boy to mind Agnita, a skeletal Indian woman who lived twodoors away, and she’d be home right after dinner.Marcus enjoyed the street party that was customary everynight after the dinner dishes were washed. The young menbrought out boom boxes; one or two women made ice cream;and everyone gossiped or walked up and down the road in thecool breeze, calling out to the old folks sitting on their frontsteps. Marcus joined the other five- and six-year-olds, chasingthe goats, chickens and each other until sundown, whenthe mothers began pulling them away one by one to scrub offthe dust and sweat. When the last child was called, Marcuswent back to his shack, took a bar of coconut soap from thetable, and removed his tattered T-shirt and dirty peach-coloredshorts. Wearing only his briefs, he went to the standpipe nearAgnita’s house to wash. There was a wait while two laughingwomen in frayed housedresses finished washing their nakedtoddlers. Marcus knew better than to jump in ahead of a motherat a standpipe.After the women moved off with their children on theirhips, he crouched down under the faucet, using it like a tinyshower. The cool water and soap felt good as he rinsed off hisday. As he walked back up the hill to his shack, the trade windsblew from the jungle to the east, chilling and drying his skin.Back at his two-room wooden shack, he put on his otherpair of white briefs and hung the wet pair on the string that hismother had nailed along the western side of the shack, facing thesea. Then he sat on the stone step on the east side of the shack,Frazer / 9

facing the jungle and the mountain, to wait for her. The partycontinued around the rum shop higher up the hill. The tsk-tskbeat of the Reggae was all that reached him, the rest of the musicscattered by the trees and the wind. After an hour the easternsky had become quite dark; he knew there’d be no more buses, sohe went inside.He wanted to leave a light on for his mother, just in caseshe was able to find a ride home, but he was too short to reachthe matches where she kept them on the ledge at the top of thewall. Leaving the kerosene lamp unlit, he climbed into the creakingsteel bed. He put his hand in the depression that her bodyleft in the old mattress and fell asleep remembering the feel ofhis hand on the great wall of her back and the smell of coconutsoap on her skin.Marcus awoke disoriented in the morning. Sitting onthe edge of the bed, he was about to call out when he rememberedthat she hadn’t come home. He had always awakened tothe sounds of her moving around the house or clanging aluminumpots on the charcoal stove behind the house. He put on hisT-shirt and shorts that had a little worn patch on the bottomwhere his briefs showed through, took a pink dollar bill from atin on the table, and walked to the little shop at the top of the hillfor some bread and cheese.The lady at the shop ignored him while she served all theothers — men who had come in to buy a single cigarette and girlswho needed an egg or a pat of margarine for the family breakfast.When the shop was empty, Marcus stretched up to rest hisforearms on the counter that ran completely across the shop,dividing the customer waiting area from the stock. He held thedollar up and said, “Bread and cheese, please.”The shopkeeper, an elderly, rounded woman in a floralprint headrag, took a loaf that was slightly larger than a hotdogbun, sliced it lengthwise and made a cheese sandwich from a fewslices of oily cheddar. Marcus gave her the bill and wandered backhome, nibbling as he went.Arriving back at the shack, he sat on a rock across theroad to eat the last bites of his breakfast. An ancient man10 / Blackwater Review

passed on his donkey, his gardening tools clanking in a burlapsack tied to the saddle, with the air of a tiny general leadingtroops into battle, his back straight and his frayed felt hatcocked to one side.The hours inched by with that imperceptible speed reservedfor small children forced to wait. Marcus walked up anddown the road, playing with other children from time to time butkeeping the house in sight in case his mother returned.About four o’clock in the afternoon, Marcus was sittingon a rock by the rum shop listening to the music and watchingthe bend in the road where his mother would appear. Two menwere talking loudly in the shop.“Yeh, man! De government truck hit dat woman, boy. Dewoman live in dat house dere.”“What house dat?”The two men came out of the rum shop, and one pointedat Marcus’ house. “Dat house. You know de woman, man! Shefat-fat, boy. She on de bridge in Grand Bras yesterday. De trucktake de whole bridge. De woman broke up. She dead-dead.”Marcus looked from the pointing finger to his houseand back to the man’s watery red eyes. He decided the man wasdrunk. His mother had missed her bus, or the bus was brokendown and they were fixing it today.At dinnertime Marcus went to Agnita’s house. He couldsee that she was staggering drunk. Snarling and grumblingabout the extra mouth to feed, she gave him a piece of chickenand some breadfruit. Marcus ate, thanked her and went back tothe rock across from his shack.He didn’t feel like playing tonight. He made marks in thedust with a stick and worried about his mother. The street partystarted up; the other children played around him, moving up anddown the street in waves of bodies, chatter and laughter. Twoyoung women stood in front of him for a while, admiring a newbaby. The crowd in the rum shop would explode with laughterfrom time to time. The reggae continued from several machinesscattered along the road, each playing different songs. He decidedto wash up and go to bed.Frazer / 11

This time he was determined to light the kerosene lamp.He put the machete on the table and slid a rickety chair close tothe table so he could climb up. Then, standing on the table, heflicked the matches onto the floor with the tip of the machete.He sat on the chair, removed the glass chimney and struck thematch. Smoke billowed from the wick as it came alight. Marcusturned the brass knob right and left until the smoking stopped,then replaced the globe.For a few seconds as he watched the steady flame, he replayed,then rejected the words of the man about his mother’sdeath. Marcus turned and looked at the wall beside the frontdoor. A rusted saw, spanner, and pliers that had once belongedto his father were hanging from nails driven into the bareboards. He remembered his father’s death two years earlier –the waiting for his father to return from the fishing areas thatwere so far out in the sea that the boats couldn’t be seen evenfrom the hill.A round, tray-like gardening basket was in the corner ofthe front room. Marcus put the machete back in the basket wherehis mother kept it. An image of her slipped through his mind: shewas carrying the basket on her head as she walked to her garden,holding the blade of the machete lightly in her fingers.She would be home soon.He went to bed, leaving the lamp burning on the windowsill so his mother could see when she came home. He told himselfthat she must be walking home. Her pillow still smelled of theearth, but the sheet no longer smelled of her body and coconutsoap. He fell asleep.A blast of heat and light woke Marcus. The entire frontroom was burning, and flames blocked the only door to thebedroom. He stood on the bed and crawled out through theopen window. Dropping onto the uneven ground, he lost hisfooting and rolled a few feet down the hill, ending up facedown in the dirt.People were already gathered on the road to watch theshack burn by the time Marcus walked past his burning bedroomand climbed up on the concrete retaining wall that kept12 / Blackwater Review

the single-lane road from sliding down the hill. He sat therefor a second or two, but the heat was burning him. He walkedacross the street and stood with the crowd.The neighbors on either side went to the standpipe tofill plastic buckets with water. As the flames grew, they sprinkledwater on their own shacks to keep them from catching,but no one tried to save Marcus’ home. Even had someonecared, it was beyond saving before the first spectator arrived.After an hour, the mumbling neighbors returned totheir houses. No one spoke to Marcus. In his white briefs,with brown blotches of dust on the deep black of his skin, hesat on a rock across the street and watched the fire die. A fewhours before dawn, he moved to the retaining wall and continuedto stare at the glow of the coals and the little sparksthat crackled and spattered. His mind was numb. He was tootired to think. Images of his mother and the inside of thehouse would wander into his mind for a moment or two, thendisappear like wisps of smoke, leaving him staring again atthe blackened wood.When the sky lightened in the east over Mount Standhope,the house was gone. A few charred boards that had oncebeen the floor joists still smoked.Marcus was hungry.He went to Agnita’s house when he saw her childrencome out to sit on the rocks for breakfast in the morning.Agnita was unconscious, but Helena, her ten-year-old daughter,built a fire in the little lean-to behind the house and gaveMarcus an egg and some bread for breakfast. Then he wentback to the rock across from the burnt shack to wait for hismother. The Immortal trees on that side spread over half theroad, making a shady spot with a nice breeze.Midmorning, the man who had rented the shack to Sylviawalked up the road. He beat Marcus with a switch pulledfrom a tree. Holding the small boy’s wrist, he slashed at theexposed skin, leaving welts and cuts on Marcus’ face, arms,back and legs. All through the beating, he grumbled quietly tohimself about the stupid boy and the damned lamp. When heFrazer / 13

couldn’t hold the boy off the ground any longer, he droppedthe wrist and walked away, leaving Marcus shaking, sobbingand bleeding in the dust of the broken road.Marcus watched the man disappear down the roadinto the village. Just as the man passed out of sight aroundthe curve, a whining, ancient Land Rover crawled into sight,zigzagging up the road as the driver carefully avoided thepotholes. Marcus pulled himself to the side of the road andslumped onto his rock.As his crying faded away, Marcus looked at the damageto the visible parts of himself. His sweat stung the scratches andcuts. It hurt to move, but he knew he should clean up.He saw Helena sweeping the dirt yard around her house.Marcus went to her because he’d seen her caring for her brothersafter Agnita’s beatings. Helena took him to the standpipe andused a bar of Detol soap to wash the dust, blood and soot fromhis bruised skin. She gently dabbed the trickles of sweat andblood with a cloth until the bleeding stopped.Marcus stayed close to Helena for the rest of the day.Because it hurt to move, he mostly sat and watched her do herchores and care for her brothers, who were both younger thanMarcus. She fed them all, and at sundown the four children sleptin the rag pile on the bedroom floor. Helena held him tenderly.Except for the slenderness of the girl’s arms, it felt like his motherwas holding him. Helena’s little brothers were restless andtalkative. Gradually they ran out of things to say and fell asleep.When Agnita came home from the rum shop, she stumbled intoher bed still dressed.The next morning an angry Agnita ran him off. “You tinkI keep you, eh? You tink I got money? Got nothing for you, boy!Go, find you someplace! Go!”Marcus hesitated. He had nowhere to go.“Now!” Agnita snapped, taking a step toward him withher slapping hand raised.Marcus backed away to get beyond striking distance.He looked at Helena’s sad, sunken eyes. She looked back andshrugged her shoulders.14 / Blackwater Review

He walked down the hill into Victoria. All day he shuffledalong in his little white briefs with the soot-stained bottom. Hewandered around the places where his mother had taken him,standing for a few minutes at the door of the drygoods shopwhere she bought cloth and lingering outside the grocery whereshe occasionally bought canned food. Mostly he watched thewomen getting off the buses from St. Georges. Several of themlooked like his mother at first as he stood on the sidewalk lookingup into the afternoon sun, squinting to see their faces inthe glare.As the village quieted down for the night, he found along-empty house with a wide set of steps in the rear. A drymop lay on the top step, where he lay down with the mop for apillow. His skin was itching and sore. It was hard to find a positionwhere a cut wasn’t pushed against the rough concrete. Heeventually slept for a few hours until the mosquitoes startedbiting him. It was hard to sleep after that. He’d doze off, but thebuzzing and the bites would wake him again. Around dawn hefell fast asleep.He awoke midmorning, hot and hungry, not havingfound anything to eat the previous day. The sun was now shiningdirectly on him. Marcus decided that there should be foodnear the main road. He went first to the women who sat nearthe Nutmeg Pool building where his mother sold her vegetables.He half-expected to see her sitting there with her lettuce stackedin front of her. A toothless old woman, sitting cross-legged onthe sidewalk with her bananas and plantains, watched him forsome time. He wasn’t begging; he didn’t know how. He just stoodquietly, looking at the food. She took a banana from a handful ofripe fruit that she was selling.“Here, boy. Take and go.” She held out the banana.Marcus took the banana and ran behind the building. Itwas a good size and filled the small boy. After a long drink ata standpipe, he wandered over to the beach, a busy and noisyplace. Some teenage boys were playing soccer on the sand; fishermenwere dragging their skiffs up on the beach with the firstcatch of the day; and some young men were playing reggae on aFrazer / 15

oom box so loudly that the buzz in the tattered speakers waslouder than the actual music. It was a good place to watch thebuses arriving from the capital.Whenever a bus came into the village, Marcus would runover and stand by the conductor, looking at each face until everyonewas off. Then he’d walk slowly back to the beach and sit on acrate in the shade of a shop.By lunch time, Marcus’ hunger was back. He returnedto the market area, where he noticed a Rasta with a roti standmade from bamboo and rough boards. He walked over andstood downwind of the stand so he could smell the curry. TheRasta was busy getting ready for his lunchtime customers, sohe didn’t notice Marcus at first. Eventually he finished his preparationsand slumped over the counter to wait, propped up byhis forearms. Then he saw the little black boy standing at a respectfuldistance.“Come, boy. Talk to me, man.”The Rasta had made three tall stools for the front of hisstand, one red, one yellow and one green. Marcus crawled onto thered one and gripped the edge of the counter with both hands.“I hungry.”The Rasta looked at Marcus’ bruised face and scratches.“You come to de right place, man! I make best roti in Victoria.Dey good-good, man! Everybody say so.”The Rasta put some potatoes and a little chicken in a rotiand handed it to Marcus. “Easy man, it hot-hot.”Marcus nibbled slowly at the edge of the steaming pastryas the Rasta rambled, “Yeh man, Jah does provide all for we. Jahgood-good to we. Jah make everyting you see, man. E-vry-ting!I-man give you roti, but it really Jah does give. Ras Tafari!”Marcus had no idea what the words meant, but he likedthe Rasta’s wide, white smile, and he liked that the Rasta wasvery dark like himself. Marcus smiled. He ate the steaming rotislowly, carefully testing each piece of chicken or potato to seehow hot it was.As Marcus finished the roti, the Rasta said, “Now, man. Istime to clean you mouth. You know dis bush?”16 / Blackwater Review

The Rasta laid a small stick on the counter, thinnerthan a pencil.“Naa, man. I never see dat,” said Marcus.The Rasta brought out his cutlass and cut two piecesabout three inches long. He handed one to Marcus. He peeled offthe thin bark while Marcus imitated him. Then he chewed oneend between his molars to fray the ends.“Dere, man. You chew and make brush to clean you mouth.”Marcus smiled and got off the stool with his new toothbrushin hand.“You come back any time, man. Any time you hungry,Jah does give you more roti.”“Thank you.”The Rasta leaned over the counter and held out his hand.“No problem, man. I Kareem.”Marcus shook his hand. “I Marcus.”Marcus walked off toward the beach — down to the waterthis time to wash his skin. He took off his briefs and wadedin until the water was across his chest. The water stung a fewof the scratches, so he washed quickly. He rubbed the briefs betweenhis hands as he’d seen his mother wash them in the riverso many times. He put them back on and climbed up on the keelof an overturned skiff to dry off in the sun, clean his teeth, andwatch the boys playing soccer.About two o’clock the government bus came up from St.Georges and stopped on the main road. Marcus ran over andstood by the door and looked at each woman as she got off. Asthe bus pulled away, Marcus stood on the emptying street, facingthe sea while the passengers walked off in all directions.He went back to the beach, climbed onto the skiff and satwatching the soccer with his back to the sea and his chin in hishands. About four o’clock, another bus pulled up on the main road.Marcus got off the skiff and took two hesitant steps towardthe bus, then climbed back up on the skiff and faced the sea.Frazer / 17

Growing up TexasRon FrazerI treasure him tiny in one hand,as I once held his mother,heart of my heart,that cold Indiana morning,an unsullied soul,all hope and wonder,smiles and kisses;She sends me pictures of Texas,of him doing Texas things;I caress the colors of his changes;Each passing year he peers back at me,a fading black and white,in winter framed.18 / Blackwater Review

A DanceLaTisa AndersonDaddy gave me poetryOn a gleaming Saturday morning,when we could hear the crispautumn leaves crunch beneath our shoes.Created my first poem from spelling words,my imagination dancing on paperrhythm and soul.Bursting with as much coloras Disney’s Fantasia.He would say, “Write, little girl, make thosewords boogie a boogie on the page.”I soon realized my pen could stitchup wounds like Susie King Taylor’s needle forthose Civil War soldiers long ago.And I believed him, Oh how I believed in him.I believed his promises until they shatteredin my heart, ricocheting like silent gunshots.His lies strung together, line dancers armin arm, swinging their legs in successionto the music in my head.Yeah, my daddy gave me blues and bad news.My Sweet Daddy gave me poetry.Good thing, too.Anderson / 19

Game OverLinda Suzanne C. BorgenIf you were holding my head underwaterI would be more able to draw a breaththan I am right now as misery’s daughter,swirling in a slow, languid dance of death.There is only need to argue when onestill cares if one is understood or heard,but as for me, I am finished and undone.I shall not offer for debate a single word.Game over. I retreat and refuse to play.Throw the dice in my direction and IWill bat them the other way--far away.Apathy, atrophy, pick one--watch it die.A map of the road so passionately run.I played, cared, cried, and now I am done.20 / Blackwater Review

Paradise PummeledMalina GabrielWe circled paradise. Through the clouds we could catchglimpses of the tiny island and the vast sea that surrounded it.Closer and closer we flew to the emerald-green and deep navyblueabundance. Through the plate glass a little strip becamevisible. I saw the runway and took a deep breath.“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Sri Lanka, formerlyCeylon....Fasten all safety belts as we enter paradise. It is ninety-sixdegrees in Colombo, and it is 1:43 p.m. Thank you forflying Lufthansa.”It was a bright, sunny day. The flight had taken seventeenhours. It felt good to stretch my legs and actually walksomewhere other than the lavatory. My father always lookedproud to be home, but this time there was something differentabout him. We walked down the stairs onto the black tarmac.I could see fumes rising off the ground in a blur. We walked towardthe small terminal in all its grandeur, welcoming travelersto the promise of an unforgettable vacation.My stepmother, Mary, was with us. She’s a doctor but shelooked like a tourist, or a missionary. I had my father’s nativeskin coloring. Unlike us, she stood out, as most Americans did.Her pasty-white New England skin coloring gave her away. Thewomen of the island had mocha and olive skin that was draped inornately designed saris, fuchsia with gold designs, bright orangesand reds, all white, all blue, and my favorite, teal and gold withfringes. These ornate sheets were draped all over their bodies,showing just enough to be seductive yet conservative. Thoseold enough to wear bindis, those dots in the middle of the forehead,sometimes put jewels in their place. My stepmother worea white button-down oxford and khakis with bright white tennisshoes, and a big floppy hat to protect her delicate face. She woreno makeup; she’s not the type of woman to worry about suchthings. She’s practical and realistic. Some of the native womenwore makeup, but most were naturally colored.Gabriel / 21

We got our luggage and headed out to find a taxi. It waslike walking out of a theater after a matinee. The sun was blinding,so blinding one couldn’t see the driver grab the luggageand throw it into his taxi. It was a scam to get business and robthe other guys of the fares. We were stuck with the Tamil versionof Mario Andretti coming off crack. He was crazed untilmy dad said something in Tamil and he slowed down and tookus straight to the hotel. We didn’t know what my father said,but whatever it was, the driver acted like he feared my father. Iknew that feeling. He intimidated people easily, and his temperwas quick.The hotel was made of marble: marble steps, marblewalls and marble floors. The rugs looked as though they weremade in Turkey, finely woven, intricate designs too nice to walkon. There was a statue of Ganesh, the Hindu god with an elephanthead, in the foyer. I knew very little of the religion becausewe were devout Catholics. The hotel sat in the middle ofthe capital. At night this city looked like Tokyo. The streets werebusy with peddlers and beggars and tourists buying up miniatureelephants and tigers and likenesses of Vishnu, Ganesh andShiva. We went out for dinner that first night. My father wascraving mango chutney and curry. I was craving ice cream. Thenight air was hot and muggy. I was under strict orders from myfather to stay close and not wander off. I hadn’t paid much attentionto the “guards” at the airport, but that evening we encounteredmany more dark-skinned men with beards, dressedin green army uniforms, carrying guns. When we passed themmy father would nod, never saying a word. They would eye mystepmother as if she were a goddess.At each corner we passed dirty, begging kids. When theysaw Mary, my stepmother, they would swarm her. Mothers andfathers would stand back and hope that their child would bringmoney back. My father would pull packs of gum out of his pocketto give them. This seemed to be better than the money theyhad hoped to get. They would all smile and thank him and bowto my stepmother. When we finally made it back to the hotel,there were more guards at the entrance. They stopped us and22 / Blackwater Review

asked for our passports, eyeing my father intently. He held dualcitizenship in Sri Lanka and the United States, but his passportwas a U.S. military passport. They asked him a few questions asto why we were in the country. He told them we were just visitingfamily.A civil war was going on in the country. The native Tamilshad formed a militia against the governing Sinhalese. TheSinhalese had come to Sri Lanka from India and were rapidlytaking over the country, implementing their new laws and keepingthe Tamils in poverty. At least, that is how the Tamils sawit. My father’s family happened to be Tamil. For all the good itdid, my grandfather had served in Parliament, which was likeworking in the White House. Now that a different generationof people had taken over Parliament, things had changed. Tamilsall over the country were being killed. My uncles and cousinswere joining forces with the Tamil Tigers to fight against thearmy. Looking back, I see my father was in a really tough situation.We had heard about all the fighting going on, but seeingit was different. We had in fact gone to Sri Lanka to help getmy grandmother and two of my aunts out of the country. Myfather is the oldest son in his family, so when my grandfatherdied the family became my dad’s responsibility. My stepmotheroften said she felt like “The People’s Bank of Sri Lanka.” Beingthe wife of the oldest brother came with its own burdens. Shewould soon find out what a heavy load my father carried withhim. We all would.The following morning we rushed to the train station.In order to get to the other side of the island we had to travelby train first and then by taxi or bus. Colombo is on the westernside of the island, and my father’s family comes from the easternmostprovince. The trip takes at least six hours by train andthen another three hours by bus. As the taxi came to a screechinghalt outside the train station, we grabbed our bags and ranto the train. We passed men with big machetes selling youngcoconuts to drink. This was soon to become my favorite drink.Women walking barefoot with hand-woven baskets on theirheads were yelling “Vade, Vade!” I asked my dad what they wereGabriel / 23

saying, and he quickly turned and paid a woman, who handedhim a piece of newspaper with something wrapped in it. Hehanded the “Vade” to me. “Eat it. It’s good,” he said. I lookedat it. It was three balls that had lentil seeds cooked in them. Ismelled them. This was my ritual before I ate anything. Theysmelled gross, but I had to try a bite. They tasted just like theysmelled. It took everything I had to swallow it. I made a face,and my dad laughed.Finally getting on the train, we settled in our seats. I satby the window and Mary sat beside me. A man obviously overworkedand probably drunk was sitting beside her. My fathergave his seat to a woman who had been sitting on the floor withher baby. She was grateful. An ornate red and gold sari coveredthe child’s face as he suckled his mother’s breast. I turnedmy gaze toward the window. The city quickly vanished as thevast countryside came into view. Desolate and dry was the repeatingpicture in the window. Monsoon season had come andgone, leaving no trace. With each stop we drew further awayfrom civilization. Houses became straw-covered huts, rows oflittle shanties. Children would run alongside the train. Thatsame mantra was shouted over and over again, “Vade, vade!”My stomach turned. Coconut trees stood tall, with bamboomixed in here and there and everywhere.Soldiers were patrolling every stop. The man besideMary had long since passed out. His greasy head rested on hershoulder. Each time she moved to get away, he straightenedhimself and gave an apologetic smile, but soon he found hershoulder again. I laughed. My father, however, didn’t find thesame humor in it as I did. He pulled the guy up by his shirt andstarted to yell at him. Not knowing what was going on, the manbegan to plead for his life. At least that’s what it looked like. Asthe scene escalated, a soldier traveling on the train came overto investigate. He was armed with an M-16. The greasy-headedman soon became hysterical, getting everyone around himworked up.Once again we had to show our passports to the officer.He looked at my father’s over and over again. The man24 / Blackwater Review

who had caused all this chaos was soon forgotten about. Myfather was now being scrutinized. Again he explained that wewere just here to visit family. The officer never left my father’sside from that moment on. Our stop was coming up. We wereentering Batticola, the city one of my aunts lived in. It wasn’ta big city, but it wasn’t small enough to be considered a village.My aunt lived behind the church. My uncle met us atthe train station, greeting us with kisses on both cheeks andpatting my father on the back and shaking his hand. He saidthat we must hurry. The curfew was about to begin. “They willshoot you if you are caught in the streets after seven.” Shootus? I thought he was being overly dramatic. We got into a taxiand went three blocks. We could have walked, but the luggagewould have slowed us down.We walked beside the church on the little path betweenthe bushes. There was a pomegranate tree close to the path.I remembered my aunt Sahayam peeling the skin of the fruitaway for me when I was a child. The closer we got, the hungrierI became. My aunt Petieval greeted us at the door, excited tosee my father. She wasn’t one of the sisters we were coming for,but that’s how she wanted it. The house smelled good. She hadbeen preparing a feast all day. Curry and jasmine mixed withthe salt in the air.After dinner we sat around and talked. My cousinswere a lot younger than I was. The only English they knew was“Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” so we settled in for fifteen versesof “Twinkle, Twinkle.” About halfway through, a little boy camerunning through the back door with a message for my uncle.We could tell he was very upset. My uncle pulled him into theback bedroom to talk. My aunt informed us that he was myuncle’s errand boy.The boy left, and my uncle emerged from the roomlooking concerned. “You must not try to go to Vagarah tomorrow,”he told my father. “The army thinks you are a spy workingfor the ‘Tigers’ and the ‘Tigers’ think you are working withthe U.S. government and the Sinhalese army. They want tokill you.” He was adamant about our staying at his home. ButGabriel / 25

we were supposed to go to my grandmother’s house the nextday. My father and Mary talked about it. He told her to staybehind with me because it was too dangerous. She wouldn’thear of it.That night I lay on the bed wide awake while my cousinsslept on the floor around me. I could hear gunshots fireda few streets over. My stomach was getting upset. I had to goto the bathroom, so I grabbed a lantern and made my way tothe back of the house where the bathroom was. The only electricitywas a light in the kitchen. When I got to the bathroom,I closed the door and looked around. It was nothing like themodern, marble bathroom at the hotel. There was no toilet.I shone the light around the room. There was only a bucketfilled with water and a trench that had a footprint drawn oneither side of it. I really had to go. I woke my dad up. He toldme I had to stand on the footprints and wash with the water.I wanted to hold it.The next morning when I got up, everyone else hadbeen awake for a while. They had devised a plan for us to getto my grandmother’s house. We were supposed to take the nextbus that came, but my uncle knew some of the taxi drivers. Hearranged for one to take us to Vagarah. When we finally got intothe taxi, my aunt stood there crying, begging me to stay withher. My father assured her we would be o.k. As we drove awayI tried not to think of what my uncle had said. “Mahal, we willbe o.k.,” my father said to me. He called me Mahal only if thingswere serious, as when I broke my leg or when he and my momgot divorced. I was scared.The taxi driver looked through the rear view mirror at usand said, “They are looking for you, sir. They have started burningthe village ahead.” My father said something in Tamil, andthe taxi driver apologized. He quickly turned and said, “Please,sir, the army is just ahead. I must stop soon.” He, like everyoneelse, feared for his life. The smoke from the burning village wasdrifting into the outskirts of Batticola. The bus we were supposedto take was a few streets ahead of us. All of a sudden weheard a big boom followed by gunshots.26 / Blackwater Review

We entered the main road of the village. I saw a womancrying, her face covered in soot. She was holding her son, whocouldn’t have been more than two. The army troops were walkingby with their guns, threatening everyone. More gunshotswere heard. Huts and other living quarters were still burning.Men were hauling buckets of water from nearby wells to try toextinguish the fires, to no avail. Soon there would be nothingleft. Children were running around aimlessly, looking for shelterfrom the army.As I looked out the window, a man was screaming at asoldier. The soldier took the butt of his rifle and cracked himin the head. The man fell to the ground. When he tried to getup, the soldier shot and killed him, then shouted at a big armytruck that was rolling by our taxi. Another soldier was standingin the back of the truck, firing a machine gun into the fields andstreets on the other side. The truck stopped, and two soldiersthrew the man’s lifeless body in the back of it. As the truckpassed our car, my father told me not to turn around, but as acurious kid I turned around anyway. The bed of the truck waspacked with dead bodies. I couldn’t stop staring at it. This oncebeautifulcountry was now in shambles.We moved a little further up the street, and the taxidriver said, “Please, sir, I must ask that you get out here. Walkup that street and down two blocks. I will pick you up.”My father wouldn’t hear of it, so we continued on. Justahead, traffic was veering to the far right. As we did the same, Isaw the end of the bus sticking out of a hole in the road. The holewas big enough to fit two busses in. The loud boom we had heardwas the bus being blown up. We were supposed to be on it.“Sir, please keep your head down. They think they havekilled you,” the driver said softly. I was amazed at how well hespoke English.We were all stunned to the point of silence. The restof the drive I looked out of the window at a paradise that hadbeen pummeled. Coconut groves were destroyed. Tea plantationshad been taken over by the government for the exportbusiness. The whole country was a mess.Gabriel / 27

A few hours later we entered Vagarah, the village myfather was born in. It didn’t look the same. My uncle’s housewas burned down. Ruins were all that remained. I wonderedwhere my uncle and his family were staying. As we approachedmy grandmother’s plantation, the taxi driver stopped. “This iswhere I must let you out. That is the army’s headquarters, andthey surely will kill me for bringing you here.”We looked at my grandmother’s house, and on the verandawas an army flag. They had taken it over. Mango treesbowing over with their offerings still stood in front of mygrandmother’s home. We got our bags and stood on the sideof the road as the taxi left. A herd of goats came walking downthe street. They passed us without taking notice. I rememberedchasing the billy goats as a child. The dung beetles were rightbehind them, pushing balls of manure down the road.My father told us to wait outside the yard as he wentinto his mother’s house. The guards jumped up and stoppedhim. I knew he was going to be killed. But as apprehensive asthey were, they soon calmed down. He stood there talking tothem for quite some time before returning to us. While hetalked, I looked around for someone or something familiar.The tall lemon tree in the yard had been small when I had firstseen it. This was the tree that my grandmother took a thornfrom to pierce my ears. I wondered where she was. I looked tomy right, and there was the well I fell into when I was five. Myaunts were supposed to be giving me a bath. I was soon pulledback into reality.“What the hell were you joking around with them for?”my stepmother asked.“It’s o.k., dear, I speak Sinhalese as well,” he smiled. “Theythink I’m part of their army escorting the missionary throughthe country. And you’re the missionary. Amma and the girls arestaying in the church down the road. I want to kill these sons ofbitches.” His accent made his English sound funny.“I’ll show them a damned missionary,” Mary said as wewalked down the street to the church. Most of the homes hadbeen destroyed, leaving everyone to make shelter elsewhere.28 / Blackwater Review

People were living in huts newly constructed from the rubblethey had scrounged from fallen houses, as many people astwelve to a hut. We finally made it to the church. There musthave been twenty-five families crammed into the little church.We found Amma and my aunts, who were overjoyed to see us.My Amma was a short woman with a pot belly who wore herlong silver hair in a bun. I sometimes think that’s what I’ll looklike when I get older. She would always sit in a corner somewherewith her legs crossed and puff on a pipe. She remindedme of the laughing Buddha. She always had the ability to makethe best of a really tough situation.They had been huddled together in prayer. There wasnothing we could do that night, so we stayed in the church aswell. The women told us how the army had come in and takenthe house over. The soldiers told them to leave or die. My auntstried to take some saris with them but were told to leave thembehind. The soldiers had given them to their wives and girlfriends.My grandmother’s possessions were taken out in theyard and burned. She had nothing but the sari she wore. Evenas broken as she was, she still tried to baby me. We couldn’tspeak because of the language barrier, but we had our own wayof communication. I wanted to tell her we were taking her outof that place, but instead I held her hand tightly.The following morning my uncle showed up, a differentuncle than the one in Batticola. He came to tell us to catch thenext bus going to Jaffna. My father followed his instructions. Weall got on the bus and headed north. I took a long look around;we all did. For some of us this would be the last time we saw thevillage we had called home. It was heart-wrenching.The drive to Kandy was pretty. This part of the island hadnot been disturbed as much. The bus wound its way up the side of amountain that was green and lush. The road we were on was called“hairpin bend” because it was narrow and steep, and the bus wouldhave to back up a few times in order to make the turns. My aunttold me stories of many people dying in automobile accidents onthis road. People going too fast to see the road would fly off the sideof the mountain. She said that people prayed to die like this now.Gabriel / 29

We stopped in a village along the way to pick up morepassengers. I had been sitting by a man who was holding a box.Soldiers boarded the bus to do their routine checks. When theycame to my row and saw the box in the man’s hand, they orderedeveryone off the bus except the man with the box andme. My father started to protest, and the soldier turned hisgun on my father and ordered him off the bus. I told my dad Iwould be o.k. The other guard turned his gun on the man withthe box. Before the man could say anything, the box moved andtwo shots were fired. The box flew open and a chicken flutteredabout the bus. The man sitting next to me slumped in his seat.I was covered with blood. My father ran back onto the bus andpushed the guard out of the way. He grabbed me and held metight. I was in shock. The soldiers carried the man off the busand had the driver clean up the blood so we were able to leave. Ididn’t want to get back on the bus, but the soldiers were orderingus to. My dad sat beside me the rest of the trip, promisingnever to leave me again. I heard very little of what he said. AllI could think of was the chicken flying around and the officerslaughing at each other. I shuddered, hearing the gunshot overand over in my head.When we finally got to Kandy, I was sick. As we got offthe bus, children swarmed Mary, begging with their hands heldout, groping and pulling on her until she was unnerved andscreamed for them to leave her alone. They scattered at first butthen quickly reappeared. My father took money from his pocket,but they only turned their nose up at him. They wanted hermoney. My Amma said something to my dad and she laughed alittle. He just shook his head in disbelief. As I lay with my headin my Amma’s lap, my eyes took in the beauty of Kandy as aretreat for my helpless mind.Kandy seemed to be untouched by the cruelty that darkenedthe island. Flowers were blooming everywhere, sendinga fragrance through the streets. There were trees everywherewith exotic birds and wild monkeys in them. The air was coolbecause of the altitude. It felt like rain forest because of a slightmist in the air. The streets were crowded with trucks, taxis and30 / Blackwater Review

ullock carts. This city was unscathed by the war around it. Iwondered how this was so. Little shops were filled with handmadecarvings of all the different gods that I didn’t know thenames of. Others displayed batik clothing and jewelry. Youngerwomen wore dresses instead of the traditional saris. This wasa “college town” with little eateries on every corner. Still, therewere children and adults begging at every turn. People mostlyspoke Sinhalese here.I was still shaken by the bus ride. My Amma held meand rocked me like a baby. I was fifteen, but I felt two. My fatherfound a place that actually sold ice cream and broughtme some. I ate it gratefully and promptly turned around andthrew it up. My nerves would not allow anything in my body.My aunts babied me while my father and Mary discussed theirnext plan of action. They arranged for two taxis to take us backto Colombo. My aunts and Amma rode in one, and we rodein the other. This ride took us down the mountain and alongthe coast. There was the Indian Ocean, big and beautiful. Thesand was white against the teal-green water. There were stillremnants of a paradise that once was. I wondered if my Ammawould ever get her house back. And once again I thought of allmy eyes had witnessed.My sleep in the hotel room was interrupted by dreamsof a soldier with an elephant head. His tusks were ripping downthe walls of my room. I woke up several times in a sweat. Finallymorning came. I had my bags ready to go first. I couldn’twait to go home. Everyone gathered in the lobby and waitedfor our van to take us to the airport. I thought I had seen allthe violence I could handle. But I was wrong. An army truckcame rushing by our van, and in a moment’s time a boy ridinghis bicycle was hit and decapitated. The bicycle tires weremangled and the boy’s head was lying in the middle of theroad. The army truck just kept on going. I cried for someoneto help him, but there was nothing anyone could have done.I looked at Mary. She was a doctor. She only shook her head.“He’s dead,” she whispered. My Amma and aunts immediatelybegan saying a prayer.Gabriel / 31

The airport was busy. I noticed the soldiers this time.My awareness was on high alert. I wanted to hurt them allfor all the pain they were causing everyone. I scowled at themwhen we passed. I looked around at the people who workedthere. They seemed oblivious of what was going on outside thewalls of the airport. Oblivious is probably the wrong word; itwas more like they were numb to it all. When they called ourflight for boarding, my Amma had tears in her eyes. This washer home, and she was leaving it. I held her hand tightly andsqueezed. She smiled and pulled me closer.“We’re taking you home, Amma,” I said.“Home,” she repeated.We got on the plane, and soon we were climbing highinto the clouds. I looked out the window one last time. Paradisewas gone. Smoke and blood were covering my eyes. I stillsee the flag raised between the mango trees in my dreams andpray that my father’s home will soon be returned. It has beensixteen years, and still the fighting continues.32 / Blackwater Review

Fallen StarLuke SchofieldWhen you gaze up at the midnight you seeyour friends are still up there swimming,calling you to dive back in.When you gaze up at the midnight you seean airplane in your old neighborhoodpulling a message through the clouds:“Be content.”Your constellation is calling to you,the deep blue praying you’ll understand thatfalling stars are few and far between.Schofield / 33

The Birth of Abstract*Stefanie C. DuurvoortThere was a cobalt skyStirred with pinked clouds of white,A hued sun of perfectionReflecting an amber light.The trees were bowed so gentlyLike vines upon a trellisAnd a lake of purest crystal—Leonardo would be jealous.The paints worked like magicA true joy to the eye.That’s when I heard a buzz—And in entered the Fly.He was so cocky,With glass wingsAnd ten thousand eyes.He wanted adventureA thrillSo he decided to take a diveRight into the golden sky.Oh, carefully I aimedTo dislodge my helpless foe,But the paints became evilAnd the Fly had far to go.He tumbled into grasses,Mixing cadmium yellowInto the viridian green.Next he scrambled to the creamy cloudsCreating a soupy scene.34 / Blackwater Review

Frustration with a palette knifeChased this bandit across the landWith unnoticed smearingSmudgingScrapingCreated by my hand.Finally a victorTossed the psychedelic corpse away,Took a calming breathBefore viewing a wasted day--There is a fallout skyBlobbed with pinked clouds of green,A hued sun of distentionReflecting a ghastly dream.The trees are mushed so greatly,Much too overzealous.And a lake of malformation—Pollack would be jealous.The paints work like voodooA true grimace to the eye.All resulted from an uninvited buzzWhen in entered the Fly.*First place, James N. LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2001.Duurvoort / 35

Redemption and the Two-Dollar CarnivalJoanna SoriaVertigo kept me from the swirling lights, the hypnotic pitching,until mother surveyed the menagerie, hoisted meonto a hollow-eyed wooden steed named Lightning;said, “try it,” and I felt the visceral wrenchlike gravity from a tightrope over Times SquareRising, falling, faces blurring, becoming conspiratorsin the dizzying scheme; I almost forgot the singeing smackof her hand across my flushed cheek that morning;Watching the Queen of Olympus as she rises, falls, becomesa valiant white mare, unbridled, with golden manethrown back, muscles tense, hooves beating the air,now a swan, snowy wings stretched and reaching for ambient lightbeyond the jaundiced glow of the decaying, beer-stained carnival;and nowthe tiger, crouched outside my door at night when I liesleepless in my bed, holding my breath and straining to hear,praying it’s the gentle click of a cockroach spooking aroundin some shopping bags by the doorFlecks of gold-esque paint and the odor of rust on my hands,hands almost numb from gripping the post that impaled Lightning;red mouth, teeth; the swaying ground bleeds into skyAfter treating me to a carousel ride and a cherry snow cone,Mother considered herself forgiven36 / Blackwater Review

Mermaid on the MoonJoanna SoriaOne day, I found myself able to reminisce over chocolatemousse with my latest soul mate, the one with the intense hazelgreeneyes, and I laughed about my days before Pilates, powersuits, and orthodontic intervention because I’ve got it so togethernow. I recalled all the times that my cheeks tingled and mytongue felt like Jell-O wrapped in sandpaper, like when I was sixyears old and it was time to recite my part of the Nutrition Dayschool play, only I couldn’t think of my lines. So I just stood therecooking under the stage lights while the audience looked on sympathetically,aware now that certain vital information regardingthe food pyramid would never be relayed to them, at least not viathe petrified radish that tugged at her red tights and helplesslyscanned the crowd for Mommy. And then, in time, the NutritionDay fiasco faded into a dot on the radar when compared to thedisaster that struck when I was twelve....***I lay on my bed with my arms folded across my chest andstared up at the popcorn ceiling for a while, and then I raisedmy legs high into the air and pretended I was walking on it. Butit wasn’t the ceiling any more, it was the Moon. I figured thatthe Moon was the only place I could go to escape the humiliationthat would haunt me here on Earth. After replaying scenesover and over in my mind and finally deciding that I couldn’tbear to relive another unhappy ending, I returned from theMoon to take Nessie for a walk.She trotted happily through the puddles as though shewanted to torture me with her cold drippy nose and sneaky terriersmile, as though she knew of the horror that had befallenme. And the sun wrestled its way from behind ashy clouds, determinedto get a peek at the Loser Girl.As we walked, I realized that none of this would havehappened if it hadn’t been for my hair. I had this theory thathad allowed me to blame all my decidedly bad luck over the pastSoria / 37

twelve years on my moppish head of hair. It’s because there aretwo types of people, and anyone can determine which type sheis by simply trying to run her fingers through her hair afterwaking up in the morning. Category 1 is inhabited by the luckypeople who wake up with decent, run-your-fingers-throughithair. These people generally have the juiciest love lives, themost stylish wardrobes, and a decent shot at becoming thenext pop music sensation. Category 2 houses the unfortunatepeople who wake up with bad hair and, consequently, the oddsstacked against them. Case in point: me. How could I rise andshine and hope to have a good day when it looked as if a guineapig had collapsed on my head in the night? While Mom insistedthat I had overdosed on Kool-Aid and The Learning Channel,my dad affirmed that I was onto something with my theory.(Note: Dad had morning hair that made him look as if he hadbeen electrocuted.)We passed the house where Judith used to live, and Ithought of the afternoons that she, Chelsea, and I had spentfrolicking on her lawn pretending we were horses. Once, Jordanand Derrick Abbot hid in the bushes and lobbed an arsenalof pinecones at us.“Run, ponies, the meadow is under attack!” theyscreeched. They’d been our mortal enemies ever since. Buteven when we were under constant threat of attack by theAbbot boys, life was easier before we had to worry about juniorhigh politics or spend hours trying to choose outfits thatwould impress boys like Cliff Walden and David Hartford. MyDavid Hartford.Nessie and I wandered past the Brennans’, and I couldsee Mrs. Brennan sitting out on the front porch swing drinkinglemonade with Ms. Maddie Lowenstein. As I passed, the twolavender-haired ladies looked up and smiled and pretended notto be talking about Don Patrick’s decision to paint his housechartreuse or Connie Wright’s sudden passion for Lambada lessonswith a dance instructor that was younger than her dancingshoes. As I moved out of earshot, I pictured Ms. Maddie Lowensteinsetting down her lemonade glass, all caked around the38 / Blackwater Review

im with mango lipstick, and whispering, “Did you hear aboutwhat happened to her at school today, Jeannie? Poor girl. Andlook what the humidity does to her hair....”Misery and hunger took turns gnawing at my stomachas Nessie and I looped around and passed Chelsea’s house.I thought about knocking on her door, but I couldn’t faceher. I didn’t want to see her toss her long, Category 1 hairthat always looked nice, even on Saturday mornings: Saturdaymornings when we would wake up from one of thosesleepovers where we allowed Judith to “braid our hair,”which really meant to get it all knotted up and stuck in ponytailholders that would eventually have to be ripped out. Ididn’t want to hear Chelsea tell me how it wasn’t the end ofthe world and how embarrassing things happen to everyonebecause as far as I knew, I was the only person who got hairtied into sailors’ knots and who still wore loafers and plaidskirts. Plaid skirts of doom. I just wanted it to be summeragain so we could spend all day in the pool and be mermaids.Embarrassing things never happen to mermaids.Nessie was starting to look around and sniff the airwith her “I need to pee” face, so I herded her back to my yardbecause Mom always made a big deal about how a dog should“take care of business in her own office.” As I waited for herto finish, I heard a basketball bouncing in the distance behindme. I froze as the bouncing grew louder and louder, closer andcloser. I knew who this was going to be, but I turned and facedhim anyway, hoping for the best.“Hey,” Cliff said smugly as he chomped on a wad of gum.“I heard you fell flat on your face after chorus class and yourskirt flipped up. Dave Hartford saw it.” He bounced the ballwith one hand and brushed curly blond hair out of his eyes withthe other.“It rained...the sidewalk...it was, it was real slippery,and I had these new shoes...” I stammered, my voice trailing offagainst my will. My cheeks were burning.“Hartford thinks you’re kinda old to be wearing smileyface flower underwear.” And then Cliff laughed one of thoseSoria / 39

laughs that can be heard from under water or outer space. “Hey,are ya wearin’ ‘em right now?”I knew that I had to defend my honor, or at least thehonor of my smiley face flower underpants, but I couldn’t thinkof a thing to do or say. I reached back into my memory andthought of the time I had “The Big Crush” on Cliff and he askedChelsea out instead of me. I thought how he didn’t invite meto his Halloween party that year but managed to throw a fistfulof candy corn at me during gym class. I thought of his curlyblonde hair and the watermelon-flavored gum that he neverstopped chomping on. I reached back, and the basketball was atmid-bounce when humiliation and desperation collided, whenmy fist and Cliff Walden’s stomach collided. What happenedafter that was blurry, but I eventually noticed that while Cliffhad been...neutralized, Nessie had disappeared. My moment ofvictory was cut short by a runaway Scottish terrier.Cliff was probably still reeling when I took off down thestreet, my adrenaline still pumping, my fist still clenched andtwitching. I blazed past old Mr. and Mrs. Richardson, who heldhands as they strolled under the trees on their daily walk. Iwondered if Mrs. Richardson had ever had a horrid underwearexposingaccident in front of Mr. Richardson. I looked back atthem and theorized about the embarrassing things that musthave happened to them over the years.I finally found the fugitive poking around a mailboxnear the end of the street. Snatching up her leash, I draggedher back toward our house, alternately discussing what abad dog she was and how good it had felt to punch Cliff inthe gut.Halfway back, Nessie let out a yelp and skittered behindmy legs. Spartacus, the Campbells’ freakishly large Germanshepherd, had escaped his yard and came bounding out of nowhere.He reached Nessie in less than a heartbeat’s time andsniffed and slobbered at her roguishly. I picked her up and heldher high in the air, but Spartacus kept jumping on me and pawingat her. The terrified Nessie dug her claws into my skin as Istood there trying to swat at the big dumb shepherd. Unable to40 / Blackwater Review

frighten him off, I yelled at him and at Nessie, who was scrapingat my neck.I didn’t notice Jordan Abbot coming out of his house,still wearing his soccer uniform. His cleats struck the groundwith a clippety-clop as he ran at Spartacus and chased himdown the street. I exhaled and lowered the shivering terrier tothe ground, trying to ignore the red “Jordan Abbot is a ponypoacher.... Jordan Abbot is your sworn enemy...” banner thatsurged through my mind like CNN tickertape. I rubbed myscraped arms, mumbled a “thank you,” and hoped that I wasstill allowed to hate him even though he had just helped me.He offered to walk us the rest of the way home to make surethe dog didn’t come back, and I accepted, regretting that decisionalmost instantly. I knew that Jordan knew about “TheIncident” because he played soccer after school with Cliff theLoudmouth. I walked in silence, knowing that he was waitingfor just the right moment to begin pummeling me with talesof the day’s misfortune. But he kept shuffling along, lookingup at the sky and whistling. I felt I should’ve taken my chancewith Spartacus; at least with him I wouldn’t have to (a) come upwith a logical explanation as to why I was wearing smiling floralpanties, or (b) run the risk of becoming the first documentedcase of death by humiliation.Jordan waited until we reached my yard. I forced outa quick half-smile and a “Thanks again” before hurriedly draggingNessie toward the house. I had just touched the doorknoband breathed a sigh of relief when I heard Jordan say, “Hey, Iheard about what happened.” I bit my lip and whirled around.“What about it?” I growled through gritted teeth.“You won the Spelling Bee yesterday.” He shrugged.“Congratulations.” He put his hands in his pockets, and as heturned and shuffled away, I smiled. It was a full smile that hurtmy cheeks because I hadn’t smiled all day, a smile bigger thanthe ones on my underpants.“Thanks!” I hollered, waving my arm like I was on a desertedisland and signaling a rescue chopper. I was still smilingwhen Nessie and I went inside.Soria / 41

That night, as I walked on the Moon, I wondered if Mr. Richardsonever had the chance to make fun of Mrs. Richardson abouta horrid, underwear-exposing incident. And I wondered if he hadchosen not to.***Then Hazel-Green laughed one of those laughs that can beheard from under water or outer space.“That’s funny,” he said as he stirred at his mousse. “I neverwould’ve pictured you as a geek when you were younger.” And I felt alittle weird because I hadn’t really pictured myself as a geek either...untilnow. But I laughed because he had no idea that I went to the big HomecomingDance my junior year with a guy who picked me up in a 1987Chevy Blazer decked out with cow-print interiors and a black light, aguy who presented me with a Keanu Reeves poster instead of a corsage.I wouldn’t tell him that it takes hours with a flat iron to make me lookas if I have Category 1 hair, if I could admit to him that I still believe inthe Hair Theory at all. And I wouldn’t ask him to share his embarrassingchildhood stories with me because I knew he wouldn’t have any. (Buthe did have a sophisticated wardrobe, and by candlelight he bore a strikingresemblance to the chiseled, shirtless wonder on the cover of thismonth’s Rolling Stone.) And as I sat there staring at him, I realized thathe would never know that I still walk on the Moon. And then a blacklight clicked on in my head and I muttered, half to myself and half to mychocolate mousse, “Oh, I think I get it now....”So I ended up on the Moon that night. My cheeks tingled justa little when I thought about what had happened that day, how Hazel-Green had looked at me almost sympathetically as if it was NutritionDay and I’d forgotten my lines or something. And by now he was probablyout at a club with his “associates,” breathing the free air. I was strollingon the Moon, wondering how I was going to spend my Friday nightsfrom now on, when I remembered that there was a Discovery Channelspecial on TV about the psychology of birth order, a special that Iwould actually have the time to watch now. So I camped out in frontof the TV, all curly-haired in PJ’s, with my bowl of Frosted Flakes, andlearned. About birth order, and emergency medical procedures, and theten deadliest species of spiders, and the history of flight....42 / Blackwater Review

My Temple ForgottenGina WallaceI hear it when I sit down, stand up, or kneel.The soft gentle whisperof my body crying.Crying for help, crying for relief,crying for attention.My body is a templeI haven’t worshipped since childhood.Years have passed withoutrenovation or remodeling.Drapes hang sloppily from crooked valances.Wallpaper flakesand crumbles.Wooden floors sit crackedand faded.My building, my templeseems forgotten, beyond repair.Yet, despite my years of neglectI wouldn’t refuse youif you asked to worship.Wallace / 43

Poem for a Straight Girl*Melanie E. CoerverYou have noticed that sometimesI must look away. SometimesI blush when you smile at me. SometimesI won’t sit next to you.Yesterday you looked up at meAnd your dark eyes asked why.I just laughed.But inside I was wailing out.Look; I have no answer for you.Because (my darling,) you are a child of sunlight,You don’t know the darkness of a world that doesn’t love you.When you look at me, your face is bright with ignorance.You sense pain but can’t guess why.Beyond your imagination or thoughts,In a world apart from all the roses, boyfriends, malls and movies...In the deep part of the ocean,A cold dark place,Strange and beautiful fish swimSinging their silent songs.This is a world you have never seen or imagined.This is an ocean made of the tears of the rejected.(My darling,) you don’t know these waters...You don’t know my heart. ItIs like a deep sea fishShy and electric.A translucent beauty few understand.44 / Blackwater Review

Few people of your world see deep sea fish.And when they do,It is only after they have beenBaited, tempted,Hooked in the head andDrawn into the cruel bright light of a different world.This new pressure causes their bodies to burstAnd as they gasp out their final dying breaths,People regard them with horrorAnd call them warped and ugly.(My love,) I can’t answer your questioning eyesBecause you may tempt me with a thin thread of connectionAnd draw me up to a place where the pressure would kill me.And once I had been drawn out of my placeYou could look in my heart and call it warped or ugly.And if I saw horror in your eyes,The pain would cause me to burst; to die.So I stay hereMy heart swimming aloneIn a cold dark seaA world apart from you.Sometimes I look upThrough the abyss of sea(Those fathomless tears)At your worldIt glimmers above me—like a tiny star.So impossible to reach.So easy to love.And I sing for you the silent songOf the deep sea fish.*First place, James N. LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2002.Coerver / 45

Day Lilies(or If I were a day lily and you liked flowers)Caitlin PiersonI would tell youif you could hear.But you’re sugar-coatedglazed over twicein the red sweetnessthat old flower ladiesleave out in the sunfor the hummingbirds.And the beat of their wingsso softdrowns outthe slightest noise that I makeBecauseyour ears are attunedlike radio antennasto some far-off stationthat makes you forgetthe shortness of this season.Meanwhile the ornamental bushesin the old flower ladies’ gardendrop their blossomsto the first passerby.You never couldget past the garden gate,could you?And I’m still waitingfor you to come closeenough for meto whisper in your ear“it’s spring.”46 / Blackwater Review

You SpeakCaitlin PiersonDayblue rays of darkened sunlight(why do they call it sunshine when it glows?)dance upon the windowsas they reflect the openscroll of the skyrolled out and held backby weights—the cloudsyou could write a thousand wordsand still not say as much as that empty pageNightreflections of the silver-bluethe moon and the sun arethe same light—the lampto illuminate that parchmentthe stars—tiny inkblotswhere the writer stops his workonly lips can say the wordsof deepness—they can onlybe reflected on the empty pagePierson / 47

48 / Blackwater ReviewThe AstronautSidney SpeerThe day the fish died I rowed unaware. My sculls dippedinto the water at the instant when dawn melts the horizon, andnothing seemed different about the morning except that it wasperfect. Every morning is.In my boat, the combinations of wind, water and lightare always accented by noise. Most sounds come from above, asdistant as a Lear jet, as constant as the bridge traffic, as lamentableas the heron scolding me, yet again, for entering his realmas he retreats. Often the sounds mingle with the soft slap ofthe oar blades and my measured breathing to fade unnoticed.Noise from below, however, is so infrequent it can alarm andsometimes terrify. On this morning I was startled by stirringswhich rose from saucer-like eddies, not unlike the puddles frommy oars, that dabbled across the surface. These eddies wereformed by fish spinning in corkscrew circles. I had never seenthis, but most things I have never seen, so I thought it must bea breeding ritual and continued the rhythm of my strokes. Thestirrings wove texture into the sounds of the morning.By all measures it was an uneventful row, except forwhat I saw. I was sighted on the radio tower, rowing straightdown a narrow channel, when the astronaut captured my attention.Like a rocket rising from a launch pad, a fish, a smallfish about as big as a hand, shot straight into the air about threefeet. This fish was not skipping across the surface or dancingin air like a dolphin. This little fella jumped about eight timeshis body length and hung suspended, struggling in space foran instant before his tumbling descent. I thought perhaps thisfish, distinguished from all others, determined that his liquidworld was not the only atmosphere and tried to make the leapof faith. And then I rowed on.Denial is a funny thing. It is usually a refusal to believewhat you know to be true, but sometimes it manifestsas blatant ignorance. Like the time I cooked my friend Vinny

Antolini’s exotic turtles. His was quite a collection--a softshelltortoise, a snapper, some funny terrapin--about ten inall, left in my care while he went back East. In the wee hoursas I was feeding my newborn, I was fascinated when the turtlesall started clamoring onto a large flat rock. It was a frenzy.As one climbed on, he would knock two off. Very arrestingbehavior, I mused. But I was tired and the baby was fed, sowe went back to bed, never realizing that the aquarium pumphad shorted and was heating the water and that when I sawthose turtles again they would be soup.It was blatant ignorance when I saw the fish jump. Irowed on with fanciful thoughts of the fish that would be bird.Of heroic searchers who find the key to new dimensions ofphysics and energy. Of the first amphibians, those determinedslugs that pulled themselves through swamp to solid ground.Of the first flights in space, and of the future when we mightrealize that an entire atmosphere exists just where we neverthought to see it. Very amusing behavior, I mused. But I wastired and it was late, so I went off to work, never realizing thefish were spinning to ease the sting of their rotted flesh, or thatthe astronaut launched himself from desperation, not inspiration.He sought to be the last fish alive.It dawned upon me the next morning, and soon everyoneknew. Red Tide. The first kill destroyed the fish. Floatinglifeless on their sides, they jostled at the water’s edge, piledthree deep, big and small. They were strewn atop the water likeautumn leaves fallen on the grass. I could not take a stroke withoutslapping a carcass, pushing it toward others and leaving av-shaped wake of death behind me. The jellyfish came in drovesto eat the waste. A week later the jellyfish fell, leaving gelatinousflowers just beneath the surface and piling cartilage cups on thesandy bottom. In another two weeks the dolphin deaths werereported and we grieved. But within a month the newly hatchedeggs became fledgling fish, and we thought there would be life inthe bay still and again. So we forgot. Then, almost a year from theworst, the yearling fish fell after the fall fertilizing, and this timeeven the eels succumbed. Now there is only sterile sand.Speer / 49

It was blatant ignorance. We assumed our population couldmultiply a thousandfold and the waters would be unchanged.We believed we could trap it, spear it, eat it, drive it away withnoise and waste, and the sea life would simply move aside yetsomehow stay intact. Reporters told us we did not kill the fish.It was the harmful algae blooms, those renegade toxic dinoflagellatesthat swept the life from our waters in a random freakof fate. It was denial of the first degree. It continues, and in anyconflict between the ecology and the economy the denial willtriumph. Otherwise we will not grow.But in the distant future, when the renegade toxinscome ashore, when the bodies of our children’s children arebagged up like fallen leaves in winter, we might revisit the astronaut.A young man will vaporize himself attempting to transcend.We will applaud his vision, then realize he intends onlyto escape to another time and space the day before the peopledie. And this time, if they tell us we are not the cause, there willbe no denying.50 / Blackwater Review

Who’s Bringing the Ham?Brooke Johnson“They’ll put too much lipstick on her,” Donna said, pullingout her needles and a fresh ball of yarn.“She wanted them to retire closer to home,” Helen said,counting her loops, making sure the rows were right.“Who’s going to bring the ham?” Evelyn asked, withoutlooking up from the shawl she was working on.“I told Ed I’d help pick out the dress,” Ruthie offered,settling herself on the couch next to Donna because the rockerswere taken.“I was planning on taking some baked beans,” Evelynwent on with her head down.“She never did wear much lipstick, if she wore any atall. But mark my words, they’ll put her in some shade of brightred.” Donna started a new project, a Christmas sweater for hereight-year-old grandson.“It’s a shame she didn’t get to go home before she died.”As Helen spoke, she rocked faster and knitted slower.“This was her home, and Ed was family. I told him Ithought the blue dress she wore to the Shrine Club’s NewYear’s Gala a couple of years back would be a good choice,”Ruthie said, wishing she had a rocker. Knitting on the couchmade her back hurt.“You know, maybe I should fry some chicken instead.Do you think anybody will bring chicken?” Evelyn said.“That blue dress with the polka dots?” Donna asked.“No, I don’t know who’d bring fried chicken, but I knowsomeone will. Just bring the beans and maybe some divinity,”Ruthie answered. She waited a few seconds, then asked,“What’s wrong with the blue dress?”“Nothing’s wrong with it, but do you think she ought tobe buried in a dress like that?” Donna asked.“You know,” Helen said, “she had started taking a heartmedication on top of her blood pressure pills a few months ago.I bet the doctor knew her time was coming.”“There’s nothing wrong with that dress. It looked greaton her.” Ruthie spoke with an almost indignant tone.Johnson / 51

“You’re right. But when they put the lipstick and eyeshadowon, that blue dress is going to make her look like somethingshe wasn’t,” Donna explained.“Divinity is good idea. People may want somethingsweet,” Evelyn said, head still down.“I hope Ed is going to be okay. Who’s going to take careof him?” Helen asked.“What was she not?” asked Ruthie.“She wasn’t the type,” Donna retorted.“Joe told me Ed said she’d died in her sleep. That’s a goodway to go, in your sleep,” Helen went on.“Helen,” Donna broke in, “No way is a good way.”“All I’m saying is that she went real peaceful,” Helen defended.“So who’s going to bring the ham?” Evelyn asked.52 / Blackwater Review

Randomness*Kaitlyn DucharmeSqueaky shoesAnd this day neverEndsOf paperShriveled up into ashesBurntDreams andWet socks from rainySkiesOf hopesPromises, even, of life inDeathIs here, andAll I have isSqueaky shoes*First place, OWC Collegiate High Schoolsophomore writing contest, 2005.Ducharme / 53

54 / Blackwater ReviewOn the Color of LoveAlison DunnAs I was growing up, Grandpa always told me in hisdeep Southern drawl, “Oil and water don’t mix, just like blackand white don’t mix neither.” But once I started painting andsaw what new colors I could discover, I had to disagree withhim. Black and white do mix. They make the color gray. Andthat was exactly the color life became when I met Nickolas. Notat first, of course. In the beginning, life was bright yellows, oranges,pinks and reds, like the bursting forth of a sunrise. Thecloser we became, the more life took on shades of green, likesummer. The only time I experienced blue was when he wasn’tnear. Nickolas was orange because he was strong, and yellowbecause he was calm. I was usually red because I was quite theextremist. But Nickolas said I was pink because I was sweet andhad a big heart. Whenever I had a grueling day at school, hewould bring me to the roof of his flat to show me the stars, andthe sounds of the city below seemed distant. When Nickolashad a demanding week with his kids at the Boys and Girls Club,I would drive him to the coast and we would stand with ourtoes buried in the sand, the chilly waves lapping around ourankles, the ocean sparkling like diamonds. These were our waysof making the world seem right again.Our world was surrounded by laughter, friends and ourlove for each other. It wasn’t until I took Nickolas home withme for spring holiday that the colors in the rainbow all seemedto swirl into one massive gray cloud. As we stood in my mother’skitchen holding hands, we could have heard a pin drop inthe midst of all the stares.“Oh, um, welcome to our home...uh...Nickolas... right?”my mother stammered. “I’ll show you your room.” She sentquick glances at the rest of my family and led my love downthe hall. My dad smiled nervously, then quickly resumed readingthe Sunday newspaper. Grandpa just glared and silentlybrushed by, out the kitchen door.

As the next three days passed, I quickly realized thatmixing black and white just didn’t! Not in the South, eventhough it was the twenty-first century, damn it. As our blackand white essences moved in and throughout the small countrytown I had grown up in, we experienced the gray lines we hadalways heard about. My family was blue, the deep, loyal kind:they would always love me, but certain ones, like Grandpa, hada hard time accepting the diversity I struggled to let in. Backin the city, however, as I soaked up the complexity of colorssparkling from my ring finger, I couldn’t help but think thatthe color of our relationship couldn’t have been any clearer. Wewere meant to be together, whether black, white or gray.Dunn / 55

VikingAbe TonerIt had taken most of the day to gather wood, but Roberthad finished building the pyre. Putting the body on it, the sameone that had required three men to drag out of the desert, hadtaken over an hour. Twice the body had fallen on him just as itreached the top. Robert could’ve done it easier with help, buta promise was a promise. His brother would have laughed hadhe the breath to do it. The trees of the valley surrounded themwith the flame of the season. His brother would have approved.It was their favorite season from childhood, the time before theworld went to sleep. He looked at the valley and thought of thefuture that now seemed so bleak.When his brother had left, the world was alive, the treesrejoicing in the sun as he stepped on the plane. His brother wasoff to fight the oilman’s war, while Robert stayed behind. Theyboth had their duties, his brother’s to war, and Robert’s to theman neither one loved. At first Robert had hated his brother forleaving him behind, but he did not want to disappoint this manwho had helped raise him. Robert thought of the games theyhad played in this same valley when they had been kids. Heremembered the battles they fought as teens, followed by thelove of blood. With that same love he lit the pyre and watched itburn with the sunset. A promise was a promise, and his brotherwould have approved.56 / Blackwater Review

Silver String*Jessica PalizaYou always drew mePrettier than I really wasI’m a rough sketchSmeared charcoalAnd jagged edgesBut with your penYou’d draw meWith perfect curvesStandingTallHair flowingLike a flag in the windYou’d move my bangsOut of my faceWith your fingertipsAnd look at meWith unsteady eyesTrembling like aGlass of waterWe’d stand thereSilentAnd sometimesI wouldBelieveWhat you saw.*First place, James N. LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2003.Paliza / 57

Since HenrySidney SpeerAll cats are black by night, I whisper, standing on her chest.My white whiskers sweep across her stare.We used to play,I with the mouse, rat, rabbit or vole pierced upon my fangs.Your stern admonitions, “Outside, take it outside.”I spat my captive. It scurried for life.You chased me chasing it.Remember? I purr, giving sharp caresses.Recall the raven I ensnared between your chair rungs?A great surprise on your returning. Bigger than I, though just as black.What was that legless creature I dropped upon your feet?You danced and shouted till Henry boxed it in a trap.I rub against her.I am like smoke to you since Henry gasped his last sad breath.I curl in the bend of your arm and watch with one eye as you close two.You have fallen, but my taste for death is still an appetite.Now in darkness at your doorway I offer a new prize.I know you hear my invitation, but still you lie,Singing neither praises nor chastisings.I parade my trophy past your bed, flirting you to follow.In your porcelain tub white whiskers are invisible.While I gambol, I know you listen,Ears clenched against the scream of death that satiates my hunger.From this cold enclosure, my chewing echoes.A head, four feet and tail are all I leave,For you are like smoke to me since Henry gasped his last sad breath.58 / Blackwater Review

MedalBobby RoyHe traced the folds in his faceFingered the last whisper of pale hairHe drew a finger along the broad pink line across his naked chestWhere the surgeon removed the shrapnel forty years agoHe remembered the gentle rustle of the tall grassThe sinister silenceThe click when his friend’s boot touched the groundThe dull ringing after he lifted itHe remembered the surgical instruments that peeled back his fleshThat removed the invaders that missed his vitalsHe remembered biting down with his teeth and eyelidsTrying to squeeze the pain out of his body along with the metal shardsHe touched the scar, remembering the funeralThe flag-covered coffinHe remembered the crying wife and the confused childrenHe remembered 21 thunderclapsHe pulled a white, washer-worn shirt over his headHe smiled at the images of Snoopy and Charlie BrownBut beneath the thin fabric he could still seeThe source of a million restless nightsRoy / 59

Outside inLaTisa AndersonDidn’t feel good ‘bout that self.Went and got implantsto hold that chest highTo stop those shouldersfrom slumping likethirsty flowers.Face lifted withimplants and collagen,not to mention teeth whiteningSo when that long-awaited smile didbrighten the dark horizonIt would be a model sunrise.Still got those worry lines.Wearing that frownknit tight as a sweater.Wrinkled forehead botox softened.Troubled signs erased.Getting a clean slate.Not a damn sign from the face ofwisdom of age.Think again.Dynamic wrinkles are a definite sin.Liposuction becomes the vacuumfor those earth bellies and labor thighs.Had to get that augmentationto get a perfect stimulation,to get that certain...certainSelf-esteem.Carving beauty into the outsideCraving it will sinkin.60 / Blackwater Review

Snow GooseCaitlin PiersonStudies Show That Migrating Non-Native Species May ConfuseOther NativesI have been a child of the South for as long I can remember,not counting some distant memories of birth through agethree that took place in southern California. Those memorieswere formed before my parents packed my sister, my brother,and me up and took us off to northwestern Florida on anairplane. The memories that I love the most are my Southernmemories. I fit in the South like a hand in a glove. I’m not a redneck,though; I don’t have a gun, don’t wear camouflage, don’tgo hunting, don’t speak with a sharp twang in my voice, don’tgo mudding in large trucks after it rains. I’m more of the Southernbelle type. I like sitting outside on sweet spring days whilesipping iced tea—sweet, of course.The snow goose is a creature that lives up north and migratesto the south every winter. The extreme cold of the northernregions, though tolerable to the snow geese, is not preferred to thewarmth of the more southern regions of the eastern United States.Most of my family is from the South. Everyone on mymom’s side is from Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Now and thenmy mom takes us all to visit. My dad’s family doesn’t fit in,though. His relatives, all of them, are from distant lands knownas Orange, New Jersey, and Warwick, New York. I’m not evensure these places are part of America; they’re probably part ofCanada. Being Canadian would explain why they are so differentfrom the other side of the family tree. Getting snow mightalso contribute. Sometimes in the Florida summers it gets sohot down here that you could cook bacon and eggs on the dashboardof your car. I can’t even imagine what snow must looklike. I think it must be mentally scarring to be very cold oneminute, then have a feathery substance that should be foundonly in freezers drop down in clumps on your head. Snow isPierson / 61

enough to change the habits of good people and turn theminto mutated abnormalities—people who put butter instead ofmayonnaise on ham and cheese sandwiches. I mean, come on!That can’t be normal! But anyway, my grandma and grandpafrom New Jersey are coming this January for a visit. They liketo come in January because they say the weather is “just sonice and warm.” Right! They must have some skewed perceptionof warmth. Kinda like snow geese. But this whole storyis not about how weird Northerners are. I’ve told you all thisbecause I want to tell you about the last year they visited.The beaches in this part of Florida have white sand. Wecall it “Florida snow.” On one of these “white snow” beaches isa pair of medium-sized cottages attached to each other, witha short path leading directly to the beaches. These cottagesare owned by a company called Sea Houses. Now, Sea Housesmakes money by renting out these cottages. Inside each ofthe Sea Houses cottages, the walls are coated with an awfulpale green paint called “mint.” Mint didn’t quite do the colorjustice. “Sick babies in a maternity ward” was a much bettername for it. It made the threadbare beds and couches lookgreen too. Even the windows glowed with the sickness. Theweather was as perfect as it could get in January, grey and wetand sloppy. Grandma and Grandpa were very excited to comevisit us. We were, too, in a way. We started by spending Mondayafternoon and evening, Wednesday afternoon, and all daySaturday with Grandma and Grandpa. This was very enjoyableat first. My little brother, Mike, liked the food. My sister,Marla, liked hearing about exotic places like New York City.My mom liked not having to cook, and my dad liked spendingtime with his parents. As a family we had decided, though,that being with Northern grandparents was a bad thing. Thatwas until the night of January twenty-sixth, their last nightvisiting us.Flying south for the winter is a group function for the snowgeese. They can be found in large groups flying towards their warmerdestination. Snow geese often have a leader flying at the front oftheir “V” shaped flying formation.62 / Blackwater Review

It was a Saturday morning, and we were all driving inour white Dodge minivan to the Sea Houses cottage. The skywas thick as pea soup and the air was slimy as the skin of rottenpotatoes. Halfway through our drive the clouds droppedtheir payload. My little brother, Mike, let out a hollow laughand started to count the raindrops that landed on the windowin a whisper-voice.“It’s rainin’.” My mom stated the obvious. “Hard.”“No kiddin’.” Marla voiced her sarcasm.Marla looks like Julia Roberts with the cynicism of anold war vet and the kindness of Stalin. She pretends to be justlike Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias. Only she isn’t. She is like afishing lure. A worm on a hook looks good to fish—but it hurts.Maybe I’m being unfair to her. All I know is that we have alwaysbeen archenemies. I am no Superman, though.“It looks bad out there.” I had to admit the weatherconcerned me.“Your face looks bad,” Marla attacked.“Shut up, Marla!” I defended.“You’re the dumb one, Gloria, why don’t you?”“Why don’t you both?” My dad hated any sort of noisethat wasn’t “constructive.”My dad, when he isn’t driving, eating, or watching C-SPAN,is reading a book. I think he reads books all the time to distracthimself from the life he lives. He is kinda like a tree in my mom’sgarden—transplanted. My dad met my mom in a semi-neutralstate. Maryland wasn’t part of the North or the South. A coupleof weeks later when they both moved out to California (wherethey had ME!) for their jobs, their relationship really got going.My parents met, got married, and moved, and before Dad couldblink, they had moved again and we were all living in the deep,deep South. If my dad were a coin, then the flipside would bemy mom. She is exactly like my dad except that everything isturned upside down and switched around. She played footballin high school and wrestled in college. Instead of constantlyreading, she enjoys constantly talking. She doesn’t go by hername, Sylvia; she goes by Dixie. I think my dad is still sufferingPierson / 63

from culture shock even though he married her twenty-fiveyears ago. He really needed to see someone from his homeland,so, to him, visiting grandparents was a blessing.The arrival of the snow geese at their desired destinationis sometimes a loud one. They like to announce their arrival andcommunicate to each other through a series of loud honks. At othertimes the snow geese may be more reserved and intent on adaptingto their new environment. No matter which one they choose, theyare always noticed.Our noise level simmered at low all the way to SeaHouses. We darted out of the car like frightened mice whileattempting not to get wet. Grandma and Grandpa received uswith their arms wide open. Who knew two people could holdtheir arms that wide? We dried out over a dinner of pork loin,butter noodles, and baby carrots. Poker by candlelight resultedin only a few fights between me and my sister. The evening sofar had been tame, but my mom, my sister, and I were all onedge. Good things don’t happen unless bad things come rightafter. Or at least that’s true about relatives. Later on, all sevenof us scrunched onto the couch and watched The Russians AreComing. The moment was kinda good in an old-movie or Hallmark-cardsorta way. Where is Russia?As the TV screen faded to black, the room suddenlyjoined it. From outside we heard a loud blast of thunder.“Mom.” Mike, the silent one, decided to break thestillness first.Mike was one of those kids who never learned to readuntil second grade. It wasn’t because he couldn’t learn hisnumbers, though. Mike was an undiscovered Einstein. He justwouldn’t talk. He might’ve liked to play with cars or thoughtthat airplanes were awesome or known how to divide by zero,but who would know? When he did speak, everyone listened, ifnot to hear what he had to say, then to gawk at him.“Mom.” Mike repeated himself. “I was bored so I tookDaddy’s keys and hid them. And guess what?”“What?” Mom didn’t need to ask; we’d all guessed by his tone.“I don’t know where I put them. And guess what else.”64 / Blackwater Review

Mike’s throat made a scared scraping noise. “I don’t think wecan find them in the dark.”There comes a time in every person’s life when she feelsshe can’t handle things, when she feels she has lost control.I was surprised to be feeling one of these moments already.Fourteen is way too young to have to deal with things like beingtrapped with relatives. I’m sure my sister must have beenfeeling the same thing about her seventeen years. My brother,though, was probably feeling that his twelve short years werecoming to an end. Considering that a “steel magnolia,” a footballplayer, and a brat (I am ashamed to say) were trapped in a darkcottage called Sea Houses with Bob Feldman and his parentswho owned a Cadillac with snow chains on it, sudden death forMike might have seemed highly likely. It wasn’t that Grandmaand Grandpa were so bad. It was just that Mom, Mike, Marla,and I couldn’t relate to them. We also didn’t want to try.Flashlights, down comforters, some snacks, all found inrandom places, joined us in the living room. The couch was excommunicated.The floor was attacked and settled on.“Gloria, I always thought that you might make a verygood archeologist one day.” Grandma is one of those rare womenwho speak in clear, crisp English. It was amazing how incorrecther thoughts were, though. I thought of dirt and old bonesand wrinkled my nose. Mike was lying on the other side of theroom drawing a picture in the dark. I don’t know how he cansee very well in the dark, but he can. His thin wrists swiveledand swooped as he dragged a crayon on the paper. He drew alarge goose skimming the top of a lake with its wing tip. We hadseen one just like it when we were dragged on another familytrip to the hills of Tennessee and the birthplace of moonshine.“Are you kidding?” Grandpa blustered, breaking mythoughts. “Ty Cobb, the greatest baseball player of our time!Well, of course he is!”My grandpa is sort of like the wind. He speaks in suddenand unexpected gusts about politics and sports. Grandmais an anxious sort of person, stimulated by sound, and everytime my grandpa says something, she jumps. Before GrandmaPierson / 65

and Grandpa came over to visit us, they vacationed in Italy.Grandma told Marla stories about Sorrento and walking onthe beach wearing a scarf, holding Grandpa’s hand, while listeningto him recite poetry. I personally didn’t believe any ofthe romance. Grandma can’t stand the beach or the sound ofher husband’s voice. Instead of spending time with her husband,I think she makes up schemes to live vicariously throughher grandchildren—us. I saw an Outer Limits episode like thatonce.After some interesting conversation and later some lackof it, we went to sleep. While we were sleeping, the power companygot their act together. Later, at around midnight, Mikewanted some water. At least that’s what we think; he wouldn’tsay anything. He reached the kitchen and let out a coyote howl.As the rest of us woke and ran to him, we saw, with our powerback, what was wrong. Creeping and crawling all over thecounter were the biggest cockroaches that I had ever seen. Dadraced off to grab the bug spray while Marla fainted, Mom swattedat them, Grandpa blustered, Grandma trembled, Mike stillhowled, and I just stood there frozen.The snow geese can be inconvenient at times. They oftenwander across streets and into the paths of oncoming cars. Theycreate ruckus at night with their honking, and they often take overlakes and parks. No matter how bothersome these creatures mayget, they still do serve a purpose in our ecosystem. Snow geese are avital part of the cycle of life, they are a basic part of the food chainand, even in death, they contribute to the nitrogen cycle. Thesebeautiful but sometimes annoying beasts do serve a purpose in ourgreat and wonderful world.My family said goodbye to Grandpa and Grandma whilethey were waiting on the front porch for the exterminator, whotold us he would be there an hour before we decided to leave.We found out, after the roach incident, that Mike had the keysall along. We have no clue why he did what he did that night. Noone knows. He won’t talk.66 / Blackwater Review

Paul and the Duckoil on canvasLynda Cast67

Welcome to My Nightmarecharcoal68Ian P. Glending

Paris en AutomnewoodRusty Adams69

Untitledconté70“Jericho” Phillip Kilpatrick

PablocharcoalJoyce M. Cross71

Bay Crossroadsdigital image72Paul Lijewski

CatfishwatercolorMax McCann73

Sweet Tangerinespastel74Ana M. Poddubny

In My Eyesblack & white photographyMegan Recher75

Ivan Deadfall–Palms & Pineconespen & ink76Rhoda Ramirez de Arellano

Guardian Since 1888black & white photography/sepia toneMaria B. Morekis77

Stormy Daydigital 3-D design78Tim Russell

DaffodilswoodWilliam John Sharratt79

First Earthly Union of Man and Womanclay80Linda H. King

MonetclayJoan M. Langham81

Galactic WondermentRaku fired clay82Kevin M. Cook

Mississippi Midnight*Caitlin Piersonwe slept in the bedin my great-uncle’s bedmy sister and ithe night beforethe day beforehis funeralour leavinghis wheezingmust have sounded harshbubbling in the silent airas he crawled beneaththe sheets we squirm betweennow, two nights postto the final cough,heaving of his chest,gasp, and sighsignaling his acceptanceand relinquishmentto the future*First place, James N. LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2005Pierson / 83

The RollercoasterAmber WestThere’s always a line.Everyone wants on this ride.Some have ridden more than once.I have butterflies in my stomach.I thought I had been on this ride before,But as I get closer it looks unfamiliar.I know I am in uncharted territory.I am ready—but I’m not.I can’t get hurt—or can I?It’s my turn now.My stomach’s in knots.I almost feel sick.Everything starts off nice and slow.Then I plunge.My heart’s racing.I’m upside down,I close my eyes.I hear myself screaming.I want to get off...But I love this ride.84 / Blackwater Review

A Crown for Silence*Michael A. BurkeSilence cast me out from heaven—bright and white, this angelic frilla tuft of Love, the fallen featherof a balding bird, gauntwingless torsodotting the Sun in silent descent:discarded seraphor climbing demon?A raucous world looms before me—no, a wordless world of tickingticking, ticking littlebobbly-headed bombs,throbbing toys,greasy feetwalking, stomping, overgrimaced faces—pantomime:“We are all children who walk and tick in time.”Feed me another line“I saw a blind man buying blinds.”They jest and laugh in timereact to my inverted climb in time.Click click went the pantomimethe land mine behind the smiling housewife’sblistered back, held in sweaty palm,pink polished false fingernailssqueezing the metal hair,pulsing scars now bareas she just stares and staresI stare. Falling deep into the darknessof shadows stretching through these bursting streetslike condom crowns, swishing fetal thoughts around,gargling babies like Chronos with rabies.Sullen swarms of skinBurke / 85

hidden by Gucci, Faded Gloryand all the in-betweens.Sway went the wave, one side to the nextshore to the ocean and back.Falling with no shadowslipping soundless into Eden,I saw the demons feeding there—careless fetuses squirming throughblack meadows, dewy fingers,umbilical fish-line.Feed me another lineas the beasts all bray in timeas the Sheep all pray in timeas the beasts and sheep all prey and feed.All in good time.Silence cast me out from heaveneyeless angels weeping winnowed tears,vegetating at the bottomquiet as quiescent peers.*First place, James N. LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2004.86 / Blackwater Review

Group TherapyKevin Taylor RayI open the “Raider Reader” campus newsletter and see alisting for the various student organizations here at Okaloosa-Walton College. Some very interesting clubs are listed, the BaptistCollege Ministries, the Creative Writers’ Club, the Prime TimeComputer Club, Students for a Democratic Society, and theYoung Republicans. These all seem like your normal group ofstudent organizations, except for one-- Students Against LifeAt Danger... SALAD! Salad meets every Tuesday after lunch, inan old storage room turned clubhouse in the H building on ourmain campus.Deciding to join this club, I search through the Hbuilding for the meeting room, which seems oddly placed inthe back corner of the college gym. As I approach the door, Ihear laughter. When I knock, the laughter stops and I faintlyhear through the door, “Shhh!--put it away, put it away....”After a long pause someone shouts, “Nobody’s here!” I lookaround the gym, wondering what’s going on, as a few studentsworking out seem to just ignore what happens in theclub room. I knock again, and the door quickly cracks open.Someone peers at me through the crack and says softly,“What’s the password?”“Hi. Uhh... I don’t know the password. I uhh... want tojoin the group,” I say with a nervous smile.“What color is the elephant? And Jackie’s dress in Dallas?”“Jack’s elephant... what?”“Patrick, move!” a bright voice says, forcing the door open.“Hi! I’m Kelly Mi. Welcome to Students Against Life At Danger.”Kelly shakes my hand with a huge smile, pulling meforcefully into the room and slamming the door shut behindme. The dark old room smells musty, and its banged-up wallsare covered with posters of Greenpeace, World Wildlife Fund,and Amnesty International. A round table sits under a smalllight in the center of the room facing a huge digital widescreenRay / 87

television. In the middle of the table is an odd-looking Applecomputer, a state-of-the-art laptop with a clear oval disk betweenthe keyboard and the raised-up screen.“What’s your name?” Kelly asks politely.I start, “My name is--”“Hey, you dress like a narc!” The guy at the door quicklymuffles out the sound of my name, thrusting his finger inmy face.“Shut up, Patrick!” orders Kelly. “This is Patrick. Unfortunately,he trusts no one.”“That’s right,” he says, staring at me with a goofy lookand wide-open blue eyes.“Over here...” Kelly scans over to the table where fourother students sit, “is my assistant, Cheandra.”“Hi!” Cheandra enthusiastically affirms.“This is Omar.”“Surf’s up,” Omar smiles, giving a peace sign.“This is Elsa.”“Greetings,” mutters Elsa gloomily.“And this is Juan.”“Yo-yo-yo!” Juan shouts, swinging his fist in the air.“You picked a great day to come, today we’ve got a mission!”Kelly exclaims.Patrick puts his serious face about an inch to the side ofmine. “Lucky for us all, I brought my... megaphone,” he whispers,glancing down at his hand and then back up at me.“All right, guys.” Kelly slides over to the laptop, andthey all quickly surround it. “Here it is, the beautiful EuonymusNosdikus... the Violet Five-Leaf Orchid!” Kelly clicks a buttonon the keyboard, and the clear oval disk beams up a colorfulholographic image of the plant in the air.“Ooohhh... aahhh,” they all mutter as the cool image rotatesin front of us.“Awesome!” yells Omar.“The early Egyptians believed the five-leaf orchid broughtits owner profound knowledge, real knowledge that held the secretsto the origin of the Universe,” remarks Elsa. “Then, rather88 / Blackwater Review

mysteriously, the orchid began to disappear at a rapid rate.”“This is one of the rarest plants in the SoutheasternUnited States,” says Kelly. “And it’s being held hostage by anEnglish professor. It’s in Dr. Vickie Hunt’s office!“I knew it! I knew she was up to something, with all thatso-called innocent... karaoke,” says Patrick.“All right, take it easy, Pat. Today we’re gonna do it.SALAD is gonna free the five-leaf orchid!”“Hey, wait a minute,” says Elsa. “You can’t just carry abush out of an office, this is Florida for heaven’s sake!”“It’s not a bush, Elsa,” says Kelly.“Last week we tried an easy job, with just Patrick hittin’it. Dis don’t sound like a one-man hit to me,” says Juan.“Dudes, he’s right. We don’t know how many bushescould be in that office. There could be two,” says Omar.“Two?” asks Cheandra with concern.“Worse... there could be three!”“Three bushes!” they all yell.“Guys, stop calling it a bleeping bush! It is definitelynot a bush. Bushes are special in their own little way, but theyare common and ordinary compared to the five-leaf orchid,”Kelly claims with frustration. “For once, let’s just focus on themission. And Patrick, don’t you dare bring that stupid megaphone.”She flicks off the light and turns on the widescreenwith a laser-equipped remote. “Dr. Hunt’s office is room 006in the E building.” The digital campus map zooms in quickly onthe building, and the room lights up green. “The office is perfectlyplaced at the end of a long hallway, next to a corner fireexit, which should provide the cover we’ll need.” Kelly uses thelaser pointer to show her strategy.“All right, who’s going in this time?” she asks. “Notyou, Patrick!”“Narco!” Patrick points at me. “You gotta prove yourself,newbie. You’re going in.”“No way! I don’t even know what you guys are talkingabout,” I say.“Why you here, den?” asks Juan.Ray / 89

“Because I want to be part of something... something good.”“You gotta prove you really want to be part of this, proveyou got what it takes to be a rebel,” Patrick says, pointing in myface, trying to intimidate me.“Why don’t you all do this kind of stuff at night?” I ask.“Hello... the faculty offices are locked at night, we don’twant to get into trouble... duh!” says Cheandra.“All right, fine, I’ll do it!”“Yea! You are one of us!” they chant, “You are one of us!”As we peer around the hallway corner across from Dr.Hunt’s office, we hear, “No! I said I want my Mercedes withplaid leather interior. We’ve gone over this before!”“She must be on the phone,” whispers Kelly.“Impossible in this world? Do you know who you’re talkingto? I put the capital H in the word Hunt... follow me? No?Okay, we’ll see what’s impossible.” Dr. Hunt slams the phonedown and stomps out of her office. We all duck back around thecorner, tripping and falling over each other with the subtlety ofa herd of buffalo.“She left the door open. Now’s your chance, go!” Kellyurges me.I stumble out from around the corner and see groups ofstudents lining the hallway, some talking and some studying.My heart is pounding as I tiptoe the short distance to the office,where I can faintly hear a classic 80’s station playing BelindaCarlisle. “Ooohh, Heaven is a place on Earth.” When I get closeenough to see into the room, I see four neatly placed five-leaforchids near the window, getting sunlight. “Four bleeping bushes!”I mutter to myself. “How many of these things are there?”I wipe the sweat from my brow and begin to take one step intothe office, when I hear... click!“Hey, everybody! That’s a Narc!” Patrick yells throughthe megaphone while pointing straight at me.I freeze as all the students in the hallway stop whatthey’re doing to stare at me. As the group runs off, I see Dr.Hunt in the distance, charging back towards her office.90 / Blackwater Review

“Hey, you! Stop right there!” she demands.Dr. Hunt runs inside the room and immediately looksup at the orchids and then down at the Starbucks vanilla latteon her desk, “Oh, my precious, thank heaven!” She turns backto me. “Who are you? What do you want?”I say, “My name is--”“You dress like a Narc. Get out of here!”Furious, I burst into the clubroom to see the wholegroup laughing hysterically. I slam the door behind me andthey all straighten up, pretending they don’t know I’m there. Irun over to Patrick and grab his shirt, shaking him. “What thebleep is wrong with you!?” I shout.Kelly grabs me. “I’m sorry. We had to know if you reallybelieved in what we’re doing here. We couldn’t take a chancewith a total stranger. It won’t happen again. I promise.”“I never want to see any of you... ever again!” I lookaround the table slowly, at each shameful face staring down atthe table. “Never!”Next week, we all huddle around the computer again.“This is it, guys, the rare and beautiful Delphinium Magtalenus...the Purple Night Heron!” says Kelly.“Ooohhh...” we all mutter.“Bodacious!” Omar exclaims as he waves his hand backand forth through the holograph, buzzing it off and on whenhis hand touches the image.“Stop that!” Cheandra smacks his hand.“Ouch, dude!”“The early Greeks thought the purple night heron heldthe key to finding your other self, and therefore continuing theeternal life cycle in the Universe,” explains Elsa. “The search forthe heron became more and more difficult, as the heron wascursed through a far-reaching conspiracy and then began tolose its real identity.”“This is one of the most elusive, rare birds in the Carolinas,and it’s being held in a cage by Dr. Jill White, in the SeniorVice President’s office,” Kelly says.Ray / 91

“I didn’t vote for her. Did you guys vote for her?”asks Patrick.“Don’t even start, Patrick! Every time, we go throughthis....” Kelly turns off the light. “The v.p.’s office is in the administrationbuilding, building A. The digital TV zooms in onthe administration building. “Her office is in the back righthandcorner. There’s way too many people working inside thisbuilding, so we’ll have to go in from this side window.”“A lot a’ heat, yo!” says Juan, as Kelly uses the pointer tobe exact.“We’ll have to be really sneaky this time, but I thinkbuilding C-1 will provide enough cover to get the bird out safely.Any questions?”Kelly turns back to the table to see us all wearing blackski masks.“What the bleep? Patrick, did you bring ski masks today?”she asks.“Oh, I brought more than ski masks, sweetheart. Ibrought theme music!” says Patrick as he holds up a small tapeplayer and clicks it on. “Check my stealthy moves!” As the musicstarts, he sneaks around the walls of the room.“Dunt, dunt-dunt, Dunt, dunt, dunt-dunt, dunt-Diditoo,diditoo, Dit-oo!” We all hum and dance along with the music.“Oh, no! There is no way you’re playing the theme toMission Impossible while we’re doing this, Patrick,” Kelly yells.“That is so stupid!”“Come on, I’ve always wanted to pull off a crime withMission Impossible playing,” he says.“This is not a crime! The real crime is caging animals andnot doing anything about it. Everyone who lives their lives pretendingthat it doesn’t matter to cage animals is committing acrime,” Kelly answers.“Yes, living in denial is a real crime. Against yourselfand everyone else,” affirms Cheandra.“Let’s get back to the music issue. I mean, the idea is toblend in, Patrick,” explains Elsa, “Not to say, ‘Hey, everyone,we’re the musically inclined thieves!’”92 / Blackwater Review

“We are nothing thieves! Except for freedom. Okay, weare stealing back freedom. Now, let’s go. And Patrick, don’t youdare bring those ski masks,” Kelly orders, “or that music!”Following Kelly, we make a mad dash for the A buildingacross campus. It’s like 98 degrees out, so I’m not sure whywe’re all wearing black ski masks, which is what all the studentsmust be thinking who are stopping to watch us run by. Crouchingdown in the bushes by the C-1 building, Kelly turns to us.“Take off those stupid masks. I’m serious! Okay, I can see thenight heron’s cage through the window now, hanging above theleft side of the v.p.’s desk.”“That bird is creepy, dude, it’s lookin’ right at us,” saysOmar, a little spooked.“Okay, Elsa, this time it’s your turn,“ says Kelly.“Oh, my lord, it’s actually... it is biting its tail! I’ve seenthat before, the early alchemists used it as a symbol for ‘thebeginning is the end is the beginning.’ That is a bad sign for thismission!” Elsa exclaims. “There is no way I’m going in there!”“Okay, Che, it’s me and you, then,” says Kelly.“Bleep! no, yo!” Juan protests, “We da most one-dimensionaland typecast characters in dis group. We goin’ in!” referringto Omar. “We gotta do sometin’ fo’ all our peeps.”Juan has the window open, and he’s in the office in twoseconds. Then he’s trying to pull Omar through.“Hey, newbie, let’s go! We’re not gonna let those stonersscrew this up,” Patrick says to me. He pulls me over to the windowas I try to grab my mask. “You won’t need it,” he claims.As I climb through the window, I look around at one ofthe most neatly organized offices I’ve ever seen. Books, manuals,and papers are filed in meticulous order along the shelvesand on the desk.“Hey,” Patrick says to me with his mask on.“Y’all have your masks on! I didn’t get mine--” I say as Ihead back to the window.“You won’t need it! Go over there, and tell us if you hearanybody coming,” Patrick says as he shoves me towards the door.Ray / 93

Patrick jumps up on the desk, kicking off papers as heapproaches the right side of the birdcage, where the tiny dooris. Juan jumps up on Omar’s shoulders. Omar stumbles into abookshelf as he approaches the left side of the cage, knockingoff books.“Careful!” I whisper.The bird moves back and forth to the right and the left,not knowing which side is safer. Patrick carefully lifts the cagedoor and slowly starts to put his hand in. The bird trots overtowards Juan and looks him in the eyes, then quickly movestoward Patrick, threatening to snap at his hand. Patrick regainshis nerve and slowly puts his hand back in the cage. The birdthen quickly turns its head and looks dead straight at me. Patrickgets his fingers right around the bird and then...“It’s You!” the bird screams at me.Patrick jumps down off the desk, kicking off books andpapers, and Omar and Juan slam into a bookshelf, falling tothe floor.“Shhh!” I run over to help Juan off the floor.We all huddle quietly under the birdcage, listening for footstepsthat might approach from outside. The birdcage gentlysqueaks back and forth on its hook in the ceiling. We scurryback over to the window as the night heron keeps a watchfuleye on us.“I told you that thing is creepy, man!” whispers Omar.“It bleepin’ talks!”“I’m out, Holmes!” Juan opens the window again.Patrick grabs Juan. “No way we’re giving up that easy.Come on, pull yourselves together! All right... I got something foryou no one can resist, little birdie.... How’s about a little Frank?”Patrick pulls the small tape player out of his pocket.“No!” I whisper, grabbing it.“Let go, Narco!” he says. We start wrestling around theroom for control of the device.“Give it tha-haa-”“Take your, no-no-no-”“Hey pssttt-pssttt--”94 / Blackwater Review

“Marco!” the bird shrieks, as we come to a cold stop.We glance up at the birdcage, and the bird isn’t there.We look around the room and find that Juan and Omar aregone too.“Marco!” we hear again from the opposite side of theroom. Our heads turn.“Polo!” Patrick says. We wait for a few seconds and hearnothing. Patrick and I look at each other, wondering what thebleep is going on.“Marco!” the bird says from another part of the room.Quickly we turn. Patrick points behind a small stack of manualsatop a corner table. We tiptoe over to the table.“Polo,” I whisper. We hear nothing.“Get ready,” Patrick whispers. He holds up his handsand gently grabs the sides of the manuals, wiggling his fingers.Then, he pulls the manuals off the table.“Phew....” We both breathe a sigh of relief and turnaround... to see the heron swooping down from the tallestbookshelf, straight down into my hair.“Aaghh!” As I feel the claws of the bird dig into my hair,I hear the distinct sound of Sinatra singing.“It had to be you,” piano, “It had to be you,” piano, “I wanderedaround,” crash! “And finally found,” smash! “The somebodywho,” boom! “Could make me be true,” pow! “Could make me feelblue,” bang! “And even be glad, just to be sad,” crack! “Thinkin’ ofyou,” piano....Stumbling around the room, I finally get the bird off myhead. Then, as I look up, the heron flies back down at me, so Istart swinging.“Some others I’ve seen Might never be mean! Might neverbe cross Or try to be boss! But they wouldn’t do! For nobody elseGave me a thrill! With all your faults I love you still!”I fall to the floor as the night heron flies back intoits cage. “Baby! It had to be you!” The Senior Vice Presidentis now standing over me in the middle of the room, holdingPatrick’s tape player. “Wonderful you!” I glance over atthe window, and outside is Patrick, in his mask, flipping meRay / 95

the bird. “It had to be you!” ( trumpet: dun-na-na--dunt!) Sheclicks off the tape player.“Get up! Right now!” Dr. White screams. “Look atmy office!”Every bookshelf, every table, her desk, and every pieceof paper is knocked over and scattered across the floor.“What is your name?”I don’t even bother to say it.“Wait a minute,” she says looking at my clothes. “Youdress exactly the way Dr. Hunt described that student who wasscrewing around in her office last week dresses! You dress like...like.... my in-laws! Get out of my office!”Absolutely furious, I burst into that clubhouse roomagain to see the whole group hysterically laughing. I slam thedoor shut behind me and run straight for Patrick.“Hey!” he yells. “Don’t get bird poo on me, now!”Patrick runs to the other side of the table. When I goone way, he goes the other, like two children playing tag.“You set me up!” I claim. “You knew I needed that mask!”“Yeah, so? I don’t trust you. I never will.”“Please calm down,” pleads Kelly. “I’m so sorry that happened.I didn’t intend for the two of you to go in. Please comeback next week?”“Bleep, Kelly!” I shout. “Bleep every single one of you!”“Fine! Then go!” screams Kelly, slouching down inher chair.“I will!”“Good!”“I mean it!”“Me too!”I stand there looking like hell, with hair sticking up inthe air and scrapes on my face, a total mess. “I will go... andnever come back!”“See ya!”“All right, I’ll see y’all next week.”“Ughh,” they all moan.96 / Blackwater Review

“This is it, everyone, the rare and beautiful Cornus Eternitus...the tropical Pink Tang!” says Kelly.“Wowww...” we all mutter.“Radical--”Cheandra quickly points at Omar. Omar flinches backhis hand in pain.“Early Native Americans found the pink tang fish at thecoral reefs off the Keys. They believed the fish held the key toa long life, through an appreciation of the cyclic self in nature.Ensuring a healthy ecosystem for future generations ensuredan immortal life force,” explains Elsa. “Recently, the world’scoral reefs have impetuously declined, putting the pink tang inshort numbers.”“This is one of the most elusive and rare fish off thecoast of Florida, and it’s being held in a tank in the Dean’s office!”Kelly exclaims.“See! I told you James Dean was still alive! I saw the rebellast week at Wal-Mart buying Rogaine and a Britney poster,“claims Patrick, pointing at Elsa.“Shut up, Patrick!” Kelly orders. “No arguing today,guys. Considering last week was the worst Salad disaster sincethe Selendang, you guys owe it to me to focus on this mission.Okay?” Then she catches a glimpse of someone filming her frombehind Patrick. “Patrick, who is that?”“Oh, uhh... I convinced MTV to film the next Real Worldhere. It’s gonna be called “Real World: Okaloosas.”“Bonzer, mate!” Omar yells as Juan and he slap ahigh five.“Thank you, sir. Goodbye,” Kelly says as she quickly ushersthe cameraman out of the clubhouse. “Don’t you guys seeit? We are the tang fish, and our little table here is a coral reef.This is a little slice of Heaven, a place where we can be our realselves, and if we don’t act soon, it’s going to be extinct. Look atall of us, how different we are. We need to stay unique, becauseyou know it’s only a matter of time before the gray people ingray suits try to shut us down!”“This is our Zeitgeist, everyone. The tangs aren’t justRay / 97

diminishing; the few that are left are having to adapt, to turnclear so the hunters can’t find them,” adds Elsa.“It sounds pretty familiar, doesn’t it? That is exactlywhat’s going on in this country. If you don’t believe what thepeople in charge say, they tell everyone you don’t belong here,and then, pretty soon, you don’t. I don’t remember Americabeing started on that kind of ideology,” says Cheandra.“Thank you, guys, that was so beautiful,” smiles Kelly,hugging Cheandra.“So, which one of us here is the pink tang?” asks Patrickwith a monkey on his shoulder.“Oh! Oh! Me! me, me,me,me!!” Omar stretches out onthe table with his hand up.“Patrick! What the bleep is that?” Kelly screams,freaking out.“Oh, this is my uncle’s helper monkey,” he says. “Yeah,he’s gonna help us steal the fish.”“I can’t believe you brought a monkey today, Pat!” Kellyslouches down in her seat and covers her crying face. “That’s it!I can’t take it any more. I quit!”“Kelly, why? What’s wrong?” asks Cheandra.“His name is Reuben,” consoles Patrick. “Look, he doestricks... Reuben! Guess what’s in my pants!”“Aak!” Reuben screams with horror.Kelly jumps up. “None of us is the bleepin’ pink tang!We are all frauds!!”“Hey,” Omar says sadly, as if the statement hit him reallypersonally.“Bro’ man’s sensitive,” Juan says, rubbing Omar’s back.“What have we ever accomplished? Huh? Any of us withSalad?” asks Kelly.“We fostered that homeless cat for a little while, until italmost clawed Patrick’s eye out,” offers Elsa.“All right, here’s a better question... and I want each and everyone of you to answer it. With all our misguided efforts, we are stillfrauds. Why are you not who you really are? In order to fit in society?Elsa, why don’t you go first, since you’ve got an answer for everything.”98 / Blackwater Review

“The soap box is obviously, and very strangely I mightadd, occupied right now,” snaps Elsa.“Okay, fine, I will go first,” says Kelly. “I love animals.But this group is really a way for me to gain forgiveness forwhat I unwittingly started as a child. When I was eight yearsold, my parents took me to the Gulf Breeze Zoo every weekend.I wanted to be a veterinarian. We were in the simian house oneSaturday, when poo started flying everywhere! I dove for cover,but I was too slow, and... I got hit right in the face! I lookedup and the monkey was jumping up and down laughing at me,grabbing himself, and flipping me the bird!”“Can you teach Reuben that?” asks Patrick.“My parents were really angry, so they decided to dosomething about it. They have a lot of money, which is howwe get all this equipment in here. They wanted to start a groupto make sure that will never, ever happen again, at any zoo.We were still somewhat new to America from Japan, not completelyunderstanding the variations in the English language,so we drove around with a bumper sticker logo on our minivansaying, ‘Honk if you want to spank the monkey, right now!’ Everyoneseemed to be supporting us, honking and smiling. Wegave them all a big thumbs-up as they drove by. We were sohappy to be doing something, to be helping others, to be helpingourselves!” She cries harder. “I even went on TV and said,‘We should all teach that dirty monkey a lesson by punishinghim... with a spanking!’ It was all so humiliating! We started agroup called the ‘coalition of the righteous,’ and we had flags onour houses and cars saying, ‘We’re better than those dirty animals,’and ‘We are always right, especially when we’re wrong.’We became powerful, with the backing of a local bank ownerand a church, and so the Okaloosa County mayor developedthe largely over-manned, secretive, and tax-absorbing Departmentof Zooland Security to protect us all while at the zoo. Andso then, the department came up with the brilliant idea to putlittle straight-jackets on all the monkeys.”“Aaakk!”“I would’ve immediately started an opposition groupRay / 99

called... (points repeatedly at Kelly with each word) ‘Big... Bad...Monkey Pride!’ and we would’ve derailed your efforts, renegadestyle!” exclaims Patrick.“We achieved nothing; we just hurt ourselves with allthat paranoia. The monkeys still figured out a way to throwpoo. And they won an even larger victory, because we did allthat harm against ourselves afterward, worrying and not trustingeach other. We were no longer free! As I got older, I realizedthe monkey was caged and frustrated; it wasn’t his fault. Wecaged him for our own benefit! We cage monkeys!”“Aakk!”“It’s the reason I started Salad,” cries Kelly, covering herface in shame. “I transformed from a joyfully ambitious futureveterinarian into a frustrated and bitter activist.”We all sit in silence while Kelly cries... except Reuben,who is wrestling with Patrick, trying to grab his nose.“All right, who’s next?” Kelly finally regains her composure.“How are you not yourself? Who is next?”We all look down at the table.“Aak!”“Patrick, how about you, then?” asks Kelly.“It’s your turn, Che’....”“It’s Juan’s turn....”“Word! Omar, you up....”“Yeah, but you can tell Elsa really wants to go, dude....”“...You’re next,” Elsa says, looking at me.Silence fills the room like fog.I look at Kelly, and I’m thinking whether I should answerthat question. She stares back at me. I wonder if I shouldsay what’s really on my mind.“Go ahead, say it,” Kelly says, as if she can read it. “If youdon’t connect with us... you are never coming back.”I smile.“I’m here to stop this group because of the non-democraticagenda of a dictator like you, deciding who can and cannotjoin this club, based on the way they dress. We know youhave a collaboration with Ryan May, the organizer of Students100 / Blackwater Review

for a Democratic Society, who is trying to influence the collegeadministration to fund rallies designed to promote unpopularideas throughout the student body!”“Aaaahhh!” Kelly finally loses it and wrestles Patrick forcontrol of the monkey.“Hey! Let go! You’re not gonna spank Reuben, are you?”yells Patrick.“I’m setting the monkey free, Patrick! Once and for all!”Cheandra jumps on Patrick’s back, pulling his head back as Kellypries Reuben out of Patrick’s hands.“Aaakk!”Kelly runs over to the door, pulls it open, and slingsReuben out into the gym.Reuben flies through the air to the fitness inspirationaltechno tune “I’ve got the power!” Dunx! dunx! dunx! dunx! Dunx!.“You got my spot, bro? Here goes 165...” a student brags,lying down on a weight bench.Reuben lands on the student’s stomach, hops to hishead and clutches around his face, frightened, as the weightbar bounces off his chest, and then the plates strike the floorwith a horrible clatter.“I’ve got the power!”“Aahh!! A monkey-dog-thingy!” screams one of the aerobicsgirls, pointing at Reuben.“Aakk!” Reuben jumps up, bounces off the wall and fliesthrough the air, landing in the hair of a lady on a treadmill. Shefreaks out and jumps off the machine, slamming it into a paneof glass.Dunx! dunx! dunx! dunx! Dunx! “I’ve got the power!”The shattering glass spooks Reuben towards the row ofexercise bikes. He jumps on the back of one rider, who topplesover onto the machine next to him, knocking them all over likedominos into more shattering walls of glass.“Go, Reuben!” Patrick yells. “Avenge me, my little pistonof wrath! Bring it all down! Tear the system down!”“Aakk!” Reuben chases the screaming aerobics girl incircles around the gym.Ray / 101

The fitness instructor tries to play hero, slinging bottlesof Powerade at Reuben, aiming them the way a quarterbackwould a football, missing horribly and smashing stacks ofweight plates over and knocking the inspirational pictures offthe wall. All the students run for cover.“Check his moves!” boasts Patrick, as Reuben narrowlydodges one of the bottles.“I’ve got the power!” Dunx! dunx! dunx! dunx! Dunx!“Aakk!” Rueben jumps on the instructor’s head. Hefreaks, slamming into all the Nautilus machines, smackingthem down to the hard floor. Running for safety, the instructordives over the drink counter and slams into the stereo, whichcrashes to the floor with a tiny explosion.Dun-dun-dun-xx-xx-x...The CD skips a few times and the power slowly fizzlesout, signaling the end of the carnage.I glance over at Kelly and the rest of the group standingoutside the clubhouse door in utter amazement, eyes wideopen, jaws extended, as Patrick’s monkey has managed to single-handedlydestroy the entire college gym. Through one ofthe shattered planes of glass I squint my eyes to focus in onthe MTV cameraman crouching down outside, filming all theaction. He zooms in on Patrick.“YES!” Patrick yells as he drops to his knees, stretchinghis arms to the air. “Thank you, Lord! All my dreams have nowcome true!” A tear drops from Patrick’s eye. “That was the mostbeautiful thing I have ever seen....”Dr. White and the Dean come running through thebusted main doors of the gym.“What is going on in here? Who is responsible for this?”demands Dean Englett.“Aakk!” screams Reuben as he hops up on the drink counter.And then, in seemingly slow motion, Reuben slings poothrough the air. It smacks right in the face of the Okaloosa-Walton College Dean of Students.102 / Blackwater Review

“You got a Zen-Buddhist explanation for why that justhappened, Elsa?” asks Omar.“Yes.... Shit happens.”Of course, the college ordered the immediate disbandingof Salad. Particularly after MTV aired the Dean’s five smellyminutes of fame a week later for its opening Real World season.I remember the first time I read about Kelly Mi in the newsletter,“Local activist makes a big difference fostering a homelesscat!” Although it was my agenda to discredit her and bringher down, I realize how much I admire her. I admire how muchshe’s willing to fight for what she believes in, for what could beright, even though she doubts herself sometimes. At least hergroup were attempting to put aside their differences and takeaction to achieve a common goal. The rumor is Kelly has appliedto a veterinary school for after she graduates from OWCnext semester. I hope she’s accepted, I really, really do. Withthat thought, I remember what my goal really is. I pull outPatrick’s small tape player and play my own theme music, thedistinct sound of Mick Jagger. Then I open the “Raider Reader”and wonder who’s next. “Pleased to meet you, hope you guess myname! ‘Cuz what’s... puzzlin’ you is the... nature of my game....”Ray / 103

104 / Blackwater ReviewClifford’s Golden LionsLuke SchofieldClifford lay sprawled on the green sofa as the earlymorning sun tiptoed into the living room. He slowly drew airinto his open mouth, each breath sounding more and more likethe neighbor’s lawn mower. The television screen held soundlessimages of the “Abjuster,” serving only as a night light forClifford’s trips to the bathroom. On the coffee table, a spiralnotebook waited for Clifford to fill the pages with tales from theOld West, of the Talley brothers and their bank robberies, andthe fat sheriff who had trouble riding his horse. His dream ofbeing the next Louis L’Amour seemed so close to realization.His visions of galloping horses and jangly spurs suddenlymorphed into the frantic romp of two Jack Russell terrierscoursing through the living room, their collar bells ringing.Five-by-eights and frames with multiple wallet-sized picturesof Clifford’s wife’s children from another marriage kept closewatch on him, always wearing Christmas sweaters or t-ball uniforms,waiting to beat Clifford with an aluminum Junior LouisvilleSlugger or a teddy bear in green and red if he ever madea wrong move. He had always felt as if he could sleep better ifthey would just close their eyes.He was also a firm believer that he would have bettermornings if his wife’s piercing eyes would not wake him fromher shadow of a recliner across from his paisley hideaway. Shewas the second thing he saw every morning right after the ceiling.Sometimes, she was even the first thing, usually on themornings when she stood over him, beating him with a toiletplunger or a dog leash. This morning she sat with her coffee anda relatively calm terrier.“Get up, Cliff,” she said, swallowing a sip of altered coffee.“I need to talk to you.”Clifford closed his mouth and worked his eyes open. Theceiling was still there, and Dottie was right across from him inher chair, massaging the terrier’s ear.

“Cliff,” she started again, this time with more force.“I’m awake, Dottie.”“Cliff, I’m going today.”“Early, huh,” Cliff said, looking up at the ceiling.“Yeah, Sherrie and me are driving up after lunch.”“Well,” Cliff said, caring less and less with each passingsecond, “You girls have fun.”Dottie flipped the television off of mute, stood up andover the coffee table by the sofa, and took a cigarette from thepack on the table, knowing each cigarette in the pack belongedto Cliff. “Cliff, do you have any money?”Cliff turned his head from the television that was audiblenow, left that way so he would have to get up to get theremote to turn it back to mute. The process ensured that hewould not be able to go back to sleep.“No.”“Well, are you gonna get a job, Cliff?” she yelled.Cliff sat up. “Dottie, I can’t work.”She wasted no time saying, “You’re worthless.” Shestormed out of the living room, down the hall, and into someworld that Cliff hadn’t been a part of in nearly five years: thebedroom. Of all his marriages, Dottie was the wife that resembledCliff’s vision of the devil more than any of the others.From down the hall he heard Satan yell, “Go watch yourblasted football! When you get back, I may have just burnedthis blasted house down!”Cliff got up and stretched. He traveled the highway ofcarpet to the alcohol-themed bathroom with Dottie’s half finishedbottles of vodka and gin adorning the vanity and a shelfabove the toilet.***Clifford stood outside on the front step, letting the winterwind raise the hair on his arms. He positioned a cigarettebetween his lips, then slid his arms through the sleeves of hisflannel shirt, helping the startled hair to settle down. Findingroom in his pockets for numb fingers, Clifford started his trekto the football field.Schofield / 105

The wind aggravated Clifford’s neglected hair, rearrangingthe part down the middle that Clifford couldn’t care less about.He took long strides, shortening his steps when a sheet of iceposed a wintertime obstacle. Behind him, he heard a car horn.“Hey, Cliff,” the driver of the Jeep said, “how’s the walking,buddy?”“Hey, Doug.”“How much longer?”“Six months.”“Damn, man, how’s your back?”Clifford listened to the hum of the engine and the carradio. He raised his voice to reply, “It’s still there.”“You ever gonna work again? I can talk to the boss manfor you.”“I don’t know, man. I’ve really been working on my booka lot.”Doug laughed, shook his head, and looked forward.“Well,” he said, “I’m gonna head on. Take it easy, man.”“See ya.”The football field waited patiently for the cleated hoovesof galloping youngsters to leave their tracks within its sidelines.Its dull-looking chain link fence enclosed the epitome ofyouth athletics. Weekend after weekend, Clifford found himselfhiding in the seemingly innocent chaos of ten- to twelveyear-oldsrunning around, knocking each other down. The harmonyof shoulder pads colliding and chin straps buckling madeClifford’s Saturday mornings complete. While people all acrossthe nation gathered around barbeque grills and motor homesoutside stadiums for tailgate parties, Clifford had chosen instead,some fifteen years earlier, to become entirely engrossedin the world of YMCA youth football. Tall stadium lights andupper decks, marching bands and nationally broadcast gamesheld not even a wick to supportive parents with umbrellas andcoolers, shouting things like “Good job, Billy,” and “Way to go,Jimmy!” Clifford could smile, watching the confusion of thelittle cheerleaders and the players with their total lack of technique,full of dreams.106 / Blackwater Review

He would always tell Dottie, “A writer has to step back sometimesand find another place when he’s frustrated.”“You work at an effing tire plant,” she replied, throwinga flower vase.Clifford knew she didn’t, and couldn’t, understand thetherapy this pastime provided. Hours and hours spent weavingtales of the dusty frontier, muddy streets, and rowdy saloons oftendrained Clifford to near empty, leaving him with a space thatDottie refused to acknowledge. He always felt that her tacklingskills mirrored those of the boys on the field. She hit high, rarelyknocking Clifford down unless he hadn’t braced himself.Clifford made his way up the bleachers, keeping anever-watchful eye on the warmup routine of his beloved FirstNational Bank Golden Lions. He exhaled that common wintersteam and watched as the boys had fun with their share, pretending(when adults weren’t watching) to smoke. Some of theplayers jumped up and down, others stretched, and two boysthrew a football back and forth.Clifford found his seat by Ronnie Fenton. The coldbleacher sent a shock wave up his spine and reminded him ofthe phone number he had taken from a commercial on televisiontouting a lawyer who specialized in helping individualshurt on the job. The guy had done absolutely nothing to helpClifford. Pondering that for a moment, Clifford realized howthankful he was that admission to these games was free.“Hey, Ronnie,” Clifford said, still looking forward at thegroup of Saturday- morning warriors preparing to scuffle withthe enemy.“Cliff, I’m freezing,” Ronnie replied.“Yeah. It’s cold.” Clifford turned his head to the otherend of the field where Miller’s Cash and Carry Sledgehammerswent through similar stretch-and-fart noise routines.He watched as the largest boy on the team touched his toes,stretching his hamstrings in an oddly professional manner.Clifford balanced on his wallet, finding the equilibriumhe was used to. Still looking forward, he said, “Dave’s kid’s gonnaplay, I see.”Schofield / 107

“He always plays,” Ronnie replied, lowering his cup ofhot chocolate. Clifford cleared his throat in disgust and turnedhis head back to the Golden Lions’ side of the field. He squinted,trying to prevent the moisture in his eyes from freezing.“Our guys look loose, kinda carefree,” he said.“Yeah, almost a little too loose.”“How was Junior this morning?”“Ready to go,” Ronnie replied, this time with a newly discoveredconfidence. His eyes lit up at any mention of his son.With those three words said, the paper banners ripped,teams lined up, and for forty-five minutes the Golden Lions attackedthe Sledgehammers like the Talley Brothers on a DodgeCity bank. Clifford looked on with restrained intensity while othersjumped to their feet, yelling and screaming. “Hit him!” “Put alick on him!” “Bust him!” Dave’s kid was stung, pecked, slapped,pricked, pinched, smothered, and covered, all game long. Hestood taller and wider than all the other players on every team inthe league but would no longer be the subject of parent debateson whether he should be allowed to play because of his size. Thelamb lay down while the Lions enjoyed their victory pizza.***Standing on the highest bleacher row, Clifford looked outover the field. He surveyed the landscape and let the wind touchhim with a chilly uncertainty. He took in the trace of smoke fromits winter wings and examined the tracks that stretched far outof sight.Outside the chain link, Clifford found his Palomino hadreturned. Most likely it had been spooked by the scent of smoke,Clifford thought. He admired its color, the pale blond coat holdingthe brown leather saddle. His rifle was still tucked inside itsholster on the side of the saddle, his trail rope wound in a circlehanging close beside. Clifford mounted the impressive steed,gave it a pat on the neck, and gently spurred it forward. He rodeback home to sift through the ashes of another failed marriage,to see if his notebook, by some caring fortune, had been sparedfrom the flames.108 / Blackwater Review

Pap in PicturesMalina GabrielThe box lay open, and there was his entire liferummaged through and out of order like the chaosof the day. I am missing him and there he was, bundledin his cap and blanket while his mama waved his armat the camera. I put my hand in the box as if I were stickingit in a hat to draw out the magic number; the number was four.In his lederhosen, looking humiliated, he stood by the flagpoleand saluted. Paper sticking as the next image is peeledapart. Two, on a tricycle with a lollipop hanging out of his mouth.12, white apron on, helping bag groceries at the family store.16, in his uniform, his hair wisping under his cap, wide-smiledand gleaming as Mama cried. Edges were worn and curledfrom being held every night.A letter, “We are sorry to inform you...missing in action...,”his name on it. The signature at the bottom, tearsmudged.My goose bumps made me shiver.23, Pap and Millie, on their first date, standing in the doorway.17, Pap and Red, faces dirty, except for their smiles, holdingthe captured Nazi flag. I held that flag with all its signaturesand traced his name. 19, after returning from the war, sittingon his Indian, the tailpipe glistening.He was not the boy in the lederhosen anymore.His muscles bulging through his army shirt. 25, Pap, with Millieholding her stomach on their wedding day. That smirkish grin,that his daughter would soon own, plastered across his face.25, pastel pinks and greens on his stomach, as we both slept.Chaos finally catches up and the box is whisked away. I cry.Gabriel / 109

Old StickRon FrazerSaw a brittlecone pine clingingto a rock in the Sierras;looked dead to me, like driftwoodstuck in a crack.They say it was therewhen Jesus calmed the waters.So what’s it got to showfor three thousand years,a shadow?Interesting getting old.Maybethe way to get really old is to takevery little and give nothing back.Be a brittle old stick.110 / Blackwater Review

At Eddie’s on 9th and PeachtreeJoanna SoriaRed-faced ancient on wooden barstooleats alone, stabs at steak and eggs with a shivering fork,floods the plate with Tabascothat spills like liquid flame of Pompeii,but slower.Brings fork to meat, meat to mouth, eyes a waitressas she leans across a booth:foreign flavor, lone survivor of time and tobaccoShapely waitress with methodical grinseems to enjoy idle chit-chat with omelet lovers,taps pen on pad and grapples for syrup-sticky pocket change,then stumbles back to 211B like a runner after the 10K,but slower.Sleeps with the light on and shares a bed with Jack Daniels—and others;spills magma down the throat to dull the senses,wipes the day’s grime on her apron.Soria / 111

112 / Blackwater ReviewIsolationismBobby RoyA sharp, high-pitched whine startled Jeremy’s eyesopen, cracking the thin film of sleep that coated his eyelids.He was forced to shut them again quickly as small blades oflight penetrated the slanted blinds covering his window andstung his dilated pupils. He was sitting at his desk, his armsfolded into a makeshift pillow in front of his keyboard. A halfemptycan of soda sat to his right, the bottom sealed to thedesk by a coat of sugary residue. His back ached from sleepingin his computer chair all night. Forcing himself to starethrough the clouds in his eyes, Jeremy quickly reread the documentdisplayed on his monitor. “WWII and the End of Isolationismby Jeremy Ellis” was centered in bold at the top of thescreen. He reached onto his bed and pulled his backpack freeof the tangled sheets that he hadn’t slept in the night before.He clicked the “print” icon, grabbed a clean change of clothesfrom the pile next to his bed, switched off the alarm, and staggeredinto the bathroom.Jeremy twisted the quartz knob above the smooth,white bathtub, allowing hot jets of water to hiss out of theshowerhead. He let the water flow over him, hoping it wouldwash away the fatigue from his restless night. The uncomfortableposition he’d slept in left him groggy. He scrubbed his facewith a bar of vanilla-scented soap in the hope that the sharp,sweet scent would wake him up.He shut off the water and dressed himself. He alwayswore t-shirts and jeans. Staring at his face in the mirror for afew minutes, Jeremy ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair,which hung just below his ears and covered his forehead. Hisblue eyes peeked out from behind a translucent wall of brownfibers. He ruffled his hair, giving himself a disheveled look. Hisfaded shirt and jeans looked awkward on his skinny build. Hesmiled, remembering arguments with his parents over his hairstyleand clothing.

“You’re a representative of this family,” his motherwould often say, “and you need to dress decently.” But eversince his father and older brother had died in a car accident, hismom had stopped fighting with Jeremy.Jeremy descended the staircase, sliding his hand downthe brown wooden banister, and skipped the last two steps,landing on the soft grey carpet of the den. He walked into thekitchen, finding it clean but empty. The plain off-white wallpapergave the room a soft glow, while the leaf-patterned borderalong the top helped break the monotony. It was subtle. Hismother had always preferred minimalist designs to gaudy andloud patterns. A familiar-looking yellow note stuck to the refrigeratordoor caught Jeremy’s eye.Jeremy, I won’t be home until late. I’m showing three housestoday, and I’ll be at the office late doing paper work. There isfood in the fridge. Be good in school. Mom. His mother had beenforced to get a job as a realtor to provide for her family after thetragedy. They had nearly lost everything when she slipped intodepression. It had been difficult for him to picture his motherunhappy before the accident. She seemed imperturbable. Afterwards,he would find his mother lying on the couch staringat the ceiling, her eyes thick and puffy, used tissues carpetingthe floor around her. In the morning it would all be gone. Shenever admitted to crying. She never got upset around Jeremy.Jeremy reached for the same cup he used every morningand poured himself a glass of milk. This never would have beenpossible before the accident. Glasses were a precious commodityin the mornings with everyone rushing to get to school orwork. Dishes would be piled in the sink and remained unwasheduntil that evening. Between the four of them, they used up everyglass in the house within a day or so. Now, dishes were abundant.Many would simply sit in the dishwasher clean, only to bewashed three and four times before they were used.He sat in the living room on a bright-green orientalcouch, sipping his breakfast and staring at the pictures on thewalls around the room. Most of the pictures were of the four ofthem. One, of his dad carrying his old dog Max, forced a smileRoy / 113

onto Jeremy’s face. The dog had been a present for his motheron Valentine’s Day twelve years ago. His mother hadn’t beenhappy about it at first.“What were you thinking?” she had yelled. “I haveenough trouble taking care of the kids. You’re away at workduring the day and Jeremy and Brandon are away at school. I’mgoing to wind up training and taking care of it.”“The man at the pound assured me the dog was alreadyhousebroken,” his dad replied gently. “You won’t have to trainhim at all. Just feed and walk....”“I don’t care what he told you,” she interrupted. “Thedog certainly isn’t staying in the house.” The dog slept on hismother’s stomach that night. She was just like that. She wouldget angry at first, but in the end she was too kind to remainangry with anyone.When Max had died two years ago, they had all gatheredin a corner of their backyard to give him a funeral. Thebody wasn’t included in the funeral because his mothercouldn’t bring herself to carry it home. They had dedicated asection of the garden to Max and planted a dogwood tree inthe center.His favorite picture was of his mother and father’s weddingday. They had eloped from college, his father twenty-twoand his mother only twenty. They looked so happy in the picture.The resemblance between Jeremy and his father was uncanny.While his older brother had favored his mother, Jeremyhad the same build, skin tone, and eye color as his father. Hismother used to remind him of it constantly.“Don’t listen to a word those girls say,” she would whisperwhile ruffling his hair. “You have the most handsome facein the world. I know, because I married a man with the sameface.” While Jeremy looked very much like his father, he hadalways found he was much closer to his mother. It wasn’t thathe didn’t love his father, just that he always came to her withhis concerns and problems. She always seemed to have an answerthat made him feel better. He always felt warm and securearound her.114 / Blackwater Review

Jeremy hoped his mother would remarry someday, notfor his sake but for hers. He knew she wouldn’t, though. Shewas too much afraid to become entangled with anyone else,afraid for Jeremy’s well-being. His mother worked long hoursto maintain the lifestyle that his father’s engineering degreehad provided them. He and his brother had never had to gowithout before, and she wanted to ensure that Jeremy neverdid. She didn’t have time for a boyfriend.When the money had first started to dry up, Jeremy’smother was enrolled in several therapy sessions a week andhardly noticed the financial problems that loomed ahead ofthem. Once she realized what might happen to them if shedidn’t find work, she became angry with herself. She quit thetherapy sessions and began a crusade to find a job, any job. Sheeventually found job as a realtor, showing houses every fewdays. He saw her a lot then. She would come home from work inthe evenings and fix dinner for the two of them. Still, she didn’tmake enough money. It looked as though they would lose thehouse after a while. Once, Jeremy came home and found hismother sitting in the living room. She simply sat, staring outthe window until she noticed Jeremy. She grabbed and huggedhim. Her cheeks were hot and sticky.“We’ll be all right, do you hear me?” she whispered intohis hair. “I’m going to get more work, I promise. You don’t haveto worry about a thing.” She worked longer hours after that.Eventually she was working six days a week and always put inovertime. On Sundays she would rest. Jeremy rarely saw her.He knew she was doing it for him, but he wished she wouldcome home early sometimes. He wished she would just let goof the house.Jeremy finished his drink, left the cloudy glass on topof the dishwasher, and walked back up the stairs to his room.His paper sat in the printer tray. He collected the pieces, stapledthem together, and slid the finished product into his backpack.“I guess that’s it, then,” he muttered, crossing his historypaper off his mental list. He took one last look around hisroom, collected his things, and headed into the hallway.Roy / 115

Locking the front door behind him, he approached thetrunk of his car. He tossed his backpack inside and took one lastlook back at his house before he left. It was a large house, muchtoo large for just two people. It was an unnecessary two storieshigh, but he knew his mother would never sell it. She wasn’t apractical person but a sentimental one. Jeremy turned the keyin the ignition. The car began to hum and vibrate beneath him.He pushed cans and papers from beneath his feet so he couldoperate the pedal unobstructed.“I really need to clean this up,” he muttered as he backedout of the driveway. “Oh, well, I’ll have plenty of time this afternoon,”he thought, “plenty of time to clean up the mess.”116 / Blackwater Review

SmileDavid HunterThe girl has a good smile, wide, with lots of teeth. It makes apretty face beautiful, and he can’t help but peek at her over his paper.He rarely smiles, and when he does it never reaches his eyes, for thatwould mean happiness and he doesn’t live there anymore. Anna had acontrived smile, tight-lipped and sneering, used only when somethingcould be gained, like a new tennis bracelet or a trip to Vegas with hergirlfriend. Anna smiled at the door when she told him about the otherman. Anna smiled across the courtroom when an unsmiling judge toldhim she got the house and the kids. Anna even smiled when she declaredhow sorry she was things had come to this, but she and the kidsneeded a father who didn’t live for his job.The girl is smiling at her friend as they talk about a biology finaland whether to bring cheese dip or sausage balls to the Christmas party.He knows he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but the friend has a loud voice thatmakes him grit his teeth. The girl has a soft voice, and he wonders whatit would be like to kiss her. Not that he ever would. She’s too young, toopretty, too good. The girl reminds him of Zoey and he thinks of the classthey shared his sophomore year. He wonders, as he often does thesedays, why he chose Anna over Zoey. Zoey would never tell people thecubic zirconium ring she made him buy was real because he couldn’tafford what she deserved. Zoey would never have a girlfriend cover forher while she and the other man went to Atlanta. Zoey would never doa lot of things, including forgive him. He wishes Anna hadn’t been sogood in bed, or at least he hadn’t been so willing.He sees a shadow fall across his paper, snapping him back to thecoffee shop. He glances up and the girl is smiling at him.“Sorry if we were being too loud, sir,” she says, and he sees thather eyes fit her smile. “I guess we’re a little excited about the holidays.”“Didn’t notice,” he says pleasantly, and his voice is warmer thanone might expect.She turns to walk back to her table, and he calls back after her,“Good luck on the biology final.”He smiles.Hunter / 117

118 / Blackwater ReviewThat One TimeStephanie ThomasI didn’t mean it, really.Sometimes things happen when they’re not supposed to.Like, when I’m taking out the garbage and accidentally forget to.So, yeah, it’s still up in the yard, rather than down by the street.But no, really.I forgot to.And that’s okay, really.The guys’ll come again next Monday to get it.And the two extra bags on the side.And then there’s when I was supposed to clean up the mess thedog left because I forgot to let him out and he just....Well, yeah. You get the picture, really.That was bad, and yeah, I won’t do it again.Just like how I won’t forget to do the dishes so that the housenever smells like rotten broccoli for two days.Really.But there was bleach, and that helped a little, but only if youlike the smells of bleach and rotten broccoli mixed.So I won’t do that again.Really.And then there’s that one time, when I went out and got drunk.Well, I didn’t mean to run the stop sign on the way home. Theneedles and then the cold...well.That was scary.I definitely won’t do that again.Really.

The Ones They Don’t Lock AwayTamara LuthyObservation: in a public school, any surface that can bewritten on by students will be. In study hall we had those browntables with the weird peely fake wood stuff on them. Of coursethe fact that the stuff can rip off means that everyone must ripit off and then draw on the cardboard/cork/whatever underneath.There’s always a Satanic symbol, always a few genericAshley loves Jordans, and always some swirly doodle carved intothe wood. Today’s addition:I dream of European lovers I haven’t met.I looked over at the guy who wrote it. He was new, probablyanother military brat like me, and had the coolest hair I’dever seen on a real guy. It was all shaggy and dark brown, andswirling around his head like he’d slept on it funky for six days.The poor guy’s name was Jeremiah Dumas (pronouncedDoo-moss), so everyone called him Jeremiah Dumb Ass likethat was such a clever play on words. I couldn’t remember ifI’d ever heard him speak before, except to correct the teacherwhen he mispronounced the name and made all the real dumbasses hoot with joy. Jeremiah. I love the name Jeremiah.“What does that mean?” Wow. Even I was amazed atmy brazenness.“Uh?” I caught him in the middle of adding little artsyflourishes to the word “lovers.” He blinked and looked at meas if he thought he was invisible and was stunned to find thatwasn’t true. He had those funky birth-control glasses with thehalf-inch-thick lenses. They made his eyes look unnaturallybulgy and a bit froggish, but in a cute way.“That thing. On the table, about the European lovers?What’s the significance of that?”“Oh, it’s painted on a wall at FSU. In red paint. My friendAnthony told me about it. He goes there and thought it was funny.”He said it as if it had answered my question, but now Iwas even more confused. I guess I could have said, “Oh, I see”Luthy / 119

or “Cool” or something else like that, but what kind of personwrites I dream of European lovers I haven’t met on a table in studyhall? I had to know.“So why did you feel the need to write it on the table?”“I don’t know.” He went back to adding an extra swoopon the end of “met.”Very curious.***I brought The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying to lunchwith me in case Brittany wasn’t there. People tend to give youweird looks if you bring a book like that to some public place,but then again they also leave you alone. When I was a lotyounger, like six or so, the teachers asked my mom if I couldskip a grade. My mom decided that it would only make me sociallyinept or something to go to school with people older thanme, so my parents said no and left me with my peers. I think ifshe’d known how socially inept I’d be without the extra year’sdifference, she might have said “Screw it” and let me skip.Not that it would have helped me necessarily. I’ve gotone of those terrible baby faces that makes me look abouttwelve, and I’ve got braces. Braces, plus a five foot nothingheight, automatically gets you at least two years deducted fromyour age. I’ll probably be carded for alcohol until I’m like thirty,and by then I’ll be gratified. But right now...I hate it. People arealways saying, “In ten years you’ll be glad at your youthful appearance.”Not young, but youthful.Only two more weeks, though, and the braces werecoming off. I was inordinately excited by this. Yippee! I’ll almostlook my age. Immediately I thought of Jeremiah. I wanted totell him, but he’d probably look at me and be like, “So?” I mean,how’s that for a booty call: “Hey, baby, I get my braces off in twoweeks!” I’m sure he’d be very impressed.Brittany rushed in and complained.“Ugh! Sorry I’m late. I had to stay after and talk to Mrs.Sanger about my notes. They were due today but I fell asleep onthe couch as soon as I got home yesterday and didn’t wake upuntil about an hour ago so I didn’t get a chance to type them.120 / Blackwater Review

I missed half of my first class today because Mom didn’t wakeme up so I missed the bus. Again. You know why she didn’twake me up? She went shopping! And then she didn’t comehome from Wal-Mart or wherever she was until like ten minutesafter school already started and I was like, ‘Mom. I told youto wake me up at five. Where’ve you been?’ And then she waslike, ‘I had to go buy you some breakfast.’ And then I was like,‘Breakfast? Mom, I have to go to school!’ And then she handedme the bag and it was an Egg McMuffin that was all cold anddidn’t even have any bacon on it, so I threw it away and we left.I think Mrs. Sanger was mad. I hope she didn’t count me tardyagain, because then it’ll be my sixth tardy this year and that’stwo absences. Gosh!”It’s weird, because Brittany is one of those people nothingever really happens to, but she always has something to sayand always manages to make it interesting. She and her momhave this loud and dramatic relationship. You’d think theyhated each other to hear them talk, but they actually get alongstrangely well, aside from all the yelling. They’re a lot closerthan I am to my parents, anyway.We grew up together, in a weird way. Our parents kneweach other when they were stationed together in Hamburg andwe were still in diapers. We used to steal each others’ bottlesand then run around her mom’s kitchen table. Man, we werethe best of friends. It’s great how kids make friends. It was somuch easier back then; your best friend is the kid who helps youtake your Barbies on safari and doesn’t laugh too hard whenyou accidentally swallow a bug. Then when we were about sixher family got shipped away, and later mine did too. Strangelyenough, eight years later I saw her here on the first day of highschool. Her dad got shipped back here to Eglin and mine retiredfrom the Air Force and became a slimy civil servant. Herparents had just gotten a divorce about a year ago, when he wasabout to be shipped off again. He left, they stayed, and we’re bestfriends again.I wanted to tell her about Jeremiah and what he wroteon the desk, but she was still breathing heavily and feeling talk-Luthy / 121

ative, so I just sat back and listened to her describe the biologylesson. I’d tell her later. I love Brittany, even though outwardlywe have absolutely nothing in common. Some friends are justas great at fifteen as they are at five.***I stayed up a lot later than I wanted to that night, thinkingabout imaginary conversations I could have with JeremiahDumas. I’m already a bit of an insomniac, and it doesn’t helpthat my room is positioned so that the light from the streetscascades in at all hours of the night. We don’t have any curtains,just these flimsy Venetian blinds. The ends are all brittleand break easily, and I always snap the ends off when I’m upsetor sad. As a result, the only bits left on the side of the blind nextto my bed are really high up. That doesn’t help keep the lightout, but sometimes it helps me sleep.I bet he’s an artist, the way he doodles millions of littleboxes and swirls and goofy cartoons on his notebook. Maybe hecould be someone who gets it. Maybe we could actually have adecent conversation.I hoped that maybe he’d been wondering about thingslike God and the nature of people too. Maybe we’d share someawareness, some special kinship because of it.In a weird way, he reminded me of this guy I knew backwhen I was in sixth grade and he was in eighth, who tried toargue with me about the perfect society. Back then I was stillCatholic and trying to love humanity despite our mean ways. Hehad this theory that the perfect society could only be achievedif we let go of superstitions and belief in the afterlife. (I probablysigned myself at such a suggestion, pious little idiot thatI was.) He said we were almost to the point in science wherewe could manipulate cells so that they would reproduce indefinitely,maybe forever. If the cells could live forever, he said,theoretically we could too.I was horrified. He said that once we accepted our “cosmicinsignificance,” we’d have no need for creativity or compassionor love. We’d have the comfort of safety and a brotherhoodof man; who needs love when you can have logic? Love122 / Blackwater Review

is messy and fake; love is an outward search for somethingmissing inside.It freaked me out to imagine millions of complacent,hollow people who couldn’t even feel enough to know loneliness.So I drew him a picture of what I thought a person in hisperfect society would look like: gaunt limbs, grey flesh and anevil, misshapen little head. I called it “Creature of Pure Logic,”which was his pretty little catch phrase for the future Man.It looked like something out of a Tool video, but I thought itmighty clever at the time. I showed it to a friend of mine, andshe said, “It looks like him!” It did, kinda. Of course I felt veryvery validated, as if I had proved my point by drawing a meancaricature of him. It was only later that I gave his opinion a secondchance. I guess the reason his idea bugged me so much wasthat, deep down, I thought he had a point.***Five days later, I felt comfortable enough to actuallytalk to Jeremiah. Before that, whenever I saw him I’d just sitstock-still except for my fidgety leg. I’d bury my face in a bookand pretend to read while I really observed him. But today, hestarted flicking this little ball of paper back and forth, back andforth. He miscalculated at one point and it landed in front ofme. I flicked it back and we started playing table soccer. Maybethe fact that he’s playing with me means he is interested. MaybeI should say something brilliant and he’ll want to know moreabout me.“You know, I think you’d really like Nietzsche.”“Meechee? Is that a person or a food?” Mmm, this maynot go too well. My whole conversation, which I had painstakinglygone over in my head all week, relied on his knowing whoNietzsche was.“A person. He’s like this German philosopher?”“Oh, that guy! Sorry, I thought you said something else. Iwas like, Meechee? What is Meechee and why would I like it?”“So you’ve heard of him.” Instant ten cool points for Jeremiah.“Is he the one that everyone says went crazy?”Luthy / 123

“Yeah, he did. It’s really strange how he went crazy. He was alwaystalking about how the strong do what they can to exploitthe weak and stuff, and how the weak just have to take it. Butthen one day he saw this guy beating a horse and freaked out.He threw himself on the horse.”“Oh.”Enter awkward silence.“They think he might have had syphilis or something.”His lack of expression made me nervous, so I decided tokeep talking. Silly me.“So yeah, I think you’d like him. He’s really pessimisticand all, but he has a point.”“How’d he get syphilis?”“I dunno. Probably the usual way people get syphilis.”This was not how I had imagined this conversation at all. I wishBrittany was here, she’d start babbling about something inane andfunny that would distract him from my sorry attempt at conversation.I’m so not good at this.“I don’t know if I believe that people go crazy at all.”Off topic, but hey. He responded at least. “What doyou mean?”“Well, who are we to judge what’s sane and what isn’t?How could we know? Maybe they’re the only ones who knowwhat’s really going on and that’s why they ‘go crazy.’ It’s just toomuch to handle.”Excellent observation! Ten more cool points for you! “So arewe the crazy ones? The ones they don’t lock away?”“I don’t know. Are we?”“Are we?”“Maybe.”When he grinned that deeply, his eyes no longerlooked froggy.124 / Blackwater Review

ContributorsRusty Adams of Crestview is inspired by nature and naturalthemes and uses them and poetry in his artwork.LaTisa Anderson, of Dale City, Virginia, is in the United StatesAir Force. She was the winner of the OWC African AmericanStudent Association first open mike night and hopes to be featuredon HBO’s Def Poetry Jam in the future.Linda Suzanne C. Borgen, a returning student, enjoys campingon the beach in August and riding roller coasters.Rosanna Michelle Boylan found that “Bustie” had a mind ofher own in personifying various ethnic backgrounds in the diversecolors of an Awabi shell glaze.Michael Burke, now an OWC graduate, won the Rietta W. B.Howard Prize for Excellence in Writing and Literature while hewas still a high-school student.Lynda Cast of Shalimar, a professional musician, is thoroughlyenjoying her return to art classes after many years.Melanie Coerver of Fort Walton Beach is nearing completionof her bachelor’s and master’s degrees at Antioch University ofSeattle and working as a scientific engineer.Kevin M. Cook, a 21-year-old engineering major, thinks hispassion for pottery “may be the beginning of something beautiful.”Joyce M. Cross of Shalimar, formerly of Santa Barbara, CA, isattending art classes “because my daughter sent me.”Kaitlyn Ducharme is a fifteen-year-old sophomore at OWCCollegiate High School. She was born in Bedford, Massachusetts,on May 14, 1989.Alison Dunn is an Early Childhood Development major hoping tograduate in the fall. One of her goals in life is to be an ambassadorto children in underprivileged countries.Contributors / 125

Stefanie Duurvoort of Niceville is pursuing a degree in nursingat Auburn University/Montgomery. She does volunteerwork and edits the newspaper of her Air Force ROTC unit.Ron Frazer, a technical writer living in Niceville, Florida,taught secondary school math and science following the U.S.intervention in Grenada and writes mostly of his experienceson that island. He has been published in SandScript and will bepublished in African American Review in 2005.Malina Gabriel spends time with her menagerie and loves togarden: “It’s therapeutic.”Ian P. Glending of Santa Rosa Beach enjoys working with avariety of media but prefers charcoal and oil painting.David Hunter is a military child who lived in Huntsville, Alabama,from 1985 to 2002. He currently works as a mechanicalengineer for General Dynamics OTS in Niceville, Florida.Brooke Johnson plans to graduate from The University ofWest Florida in the summer of 2005 and then to pursue a careerwriting gaming reviews.“Jericho” Phillip Kilpatrick has worked as a mural artist inNew Orleans and a computer graphics designer in Atlanta. Heplans to pursue a master’s degree in art therapy.Linda H. King discovered an interest in art after a career inaccounting and finance and plans to continue with sculptingto bronze.Joan M. Langham, who formerly worked out of a studio inOrlando, has participated in many group shows and juried artshows.Paul V. Lijewski of Shalimar plans to become a Web designerand follow his dream in Arizona.Tamara Luthy is a senior at Okaloosa-Walton Collegiate HighSchool who wishes to study philosophy and anthropology. Shelives at home with her family and their multitude of dogs.Max McCann of Shalimar has been painting for a few yearsand plans to take classes in sculpture and perhaps carpentry.126 / Blackwater Review

Maria B. Morekis has taught mixed media art, photography,fused glass, and “soon” pottery as a volunteer in the OkaloosaCounty school system for more than 22 years.Jessica Paliza of Niceville continues to write poetry at theUniversity of South Florida in Tampa as she studies cinematographyand plans to work in film.Caitlin Pierson, a junior at OWC Collegiate High School, wonthird place in the James N. LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contestin 2004 and first in 2005. When not writing or studying, shesings with a contemporary rock band.Ana M. Poddubny, born in the Republic of Panama, has beenpainting with pastels and finds the Niceville area a great artisticinspiration.Rhoda Ramirez de Arellano is the daughter of a musicianand an artist who gave her every encouragement to follow anartistic career. Now in the latter half of her life, she finds thatshe expresses herself best visually.Kevin Taylor Ray followed Hunter S. Thompson on and offthe emerald shores near Eglin and Hurlburt Air Force Bases.“May I be so lucky as to continue in like fashion on that questfor the truth. God Bless.”Megan Recher plans to study architecture and photography inSan Francisco after graduating from OWC.Bobby Roy is an 18-year-old senior at the OWC CollegiateHigh School.Tim Russell enjoys all the computer arts, would love somedayto be a computer animator or game designer, and is eager tojoin the real world.Luke Schofield has always wanted to write, first western andadventure stories, then songs and poetry. His influences includeGary Paulsen, Douglas Adams, Faulkner, C.S. Lewis, and Poe.William John Sharratt, married and the father of two children,has a B.S. from UWF and has retired from the Air Force.Contributors / 127

Joanna Soria is a member of Choctawhatchee High School’s2002 Hall of Fame. She is a fan of the artists Christo and JeanneClaude.Sidney Speer enjoys a good adventure and finds writing to be one.Stephanie Thomas is an aspiring linguist as well as a poet.She enjoys music and knitting and dabbles in digital imagingin her free time.Abraham Toner was born and raised in the shadows of theRocky Mountains in Wyoming. He has lived in the Florida Panhandlefor the last four years.Amber West currently resides in Freeport, Florida. She hasenjoyed writing for thirteen years.Okaloosa-Walton College100 College BoulevardNiceville, Florida32578www.owc.eduOkaloosa-Walton College is an equal access, equal opportunity institution.128 / Blackwater Review

ContributorsAmanda AndersonJessica BorsiJohn BruckelmeyerRebecca CartwrightLynda W. CastJayme ChattertonRegina ColeyMelissa CromerDaniel DavisJocelyn G. DonahooAshley DownieNivaska EastwoldAli FisherLouise FisherSara ForakerZach GershkoffLibby GuerryDavid HartElizabeth HawkinsShana HeagwoodSharon D. JamesJune S. JonesSarah KaneThomas LeightonAmy LonghenryDeborah R. MajorsMelissa McSwainLuz Maria MendozaNicole MerendaOkeye MitchellRobert MoradaMaria B. MorekisChara NelsonJoseph PaulNathan PembertonCaitlin PiersonSara RichardsonStephanie SnyderJoanna SoriaSue TarkinAbe TonerElizabeth TraxelGordon WestBlackwater ReviewBlackwater ReviewSpring 2006A Journal of Literature and Art

Blackwater Review

Blackwater ReviewA Journal of Literature and ArtVolume 4, No. 1 Spring 2006Okaloosa Walton CollegeNiceville, Florida

Blackwater Review aims to encourage student writing, studentart, and itellectual and creative life at Okaloosa-Walton Collegeby providing a showcase for meritorious work. The BWR ispublished annually at Okaloosa-Walton College and is fundedby the college.Editors:Vickie Hunt, Julie Nichols, Amy RiddellArt Director:Benjamin GillhamEditorial Advisory Board:Dr. Jon Brooks, Charles MyersLucia Robinson, Riotta ScottDr. Jill WhiteArt Advisory Board:J.B. Cobbs, Stephen Phillips, Lyn Rackley,Karen Valdez, Ann WatersGraphic Design and Photography:Nivaska Eastwold, Jennifer Eggers, Amy Longhenry,Okeye MitchellAdministrative Assistant:Amanda AndersonAll selections published in this issue are the work of students;they do not necessarily reflect the views of members of theadministration, faculty, staff, District Board of Trustees, orFoundation Board of Okaloosa-Walton College.©2006 Okaloosa-Walton CollegeAll rights are owned by the authors of the selectionsFront cover: Mardi GrasOil on canvasMelissa McSwain

AcknowledgmentsThe editors and staff extend their sincere appreciationto Dr. James R. Richburg, President, and Dr. Jill White, SeniorVice President, Okaloosa-Walton College, for their support ofthe Blackwater Review.We are also grateful to Christian LaRoche, sponsor ofthe James N. LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, and to CharlaCotton, Director of the OWC Collegiate High School, whosponsored the BWR Sophomore Creative Writing Contest. Thewinners of these contests are included in this issue.Special recognition goes to Lucia Robinson, whose initialvision of Blackwater Review served as catalyst for this project,and without whom there would be no forum for creative writersat Okaloosa-Walton College.

CONTENTSAnother Late Night in Purgatory, Gordon West 1Rubber-necking, Thomas Leighton 3He Should Be The One To Go, Deborah R. Majors 4Sunny Side Down, Elizabeth Hawkins 5The Internment Camps of Cold Silence, Daniel Davis 10April 23rd, 2010 (Our End), Daniel Davis 12The Quintessential Nothing, Nathan Pemberton 14Your Eyes Have No Title, Caitlin Pierson 18Face Me, Caitlin Pierson 19Fine, Ali Fisher 21The Retard Mused, Joanna Soria 23Goodbye Stranger, John Bruckelmeyer 24Wal-Mart’s Parking Lot: A Catalyst, Deborah R. Majors 32Estranged, Nicole Merenda 34Too Young, Ashley Downie 35I Wish You Wanted Fries, Elizabeth Traxel 41Road Trip, Sara Richardson 43Confirmation Class, Jessica Borsi 45

Distance, Shana Heagwood 47Bad Habits, Caitlin Pierson 48Night Dreams, Nathan Pemberton 49Rothko, Nathan Pemberton 50Mementos, Robert Morada 51Phonetics, Sarah Kane 53It’s Been a Long Time Coming, Jocelyn G. Donahoo 54Merry-Go-Round Memory, Caitlin Pierson 71The Ninth Tier, Thomas Leighton 73A Lion’s Tale, Abe Toner 75The Jim Morrison Lighter, Stephanie Snyder 77Woman to Rib, Daniel Davis 85Hear Lies, Ophelia, Amanda Anderson 87Wanderings, Elizabeth Traxel 89The Philosophy of the Taxi Driver, Zach Gershkoff 91Facade Uncovered, Shana Heagwood 93Things Will Always Change, Abe Toner 94Perfect Strangers, Chara Nelson 95The Fall of Soul, Joseph Paul 99

Rooftops, Gordon West 101Better Regret, Nicole Merenda 103Color PlatesCalming Koi, Sharon D. James 55The Soul of New Orleans, Luz Maria Mendoza 56Living Beyond Yourself, Sue Tarkin 57Rubber Ducky, Jayme Chatterton 58Self Portrait, Melissa Cromer 59The Original “Material Girl”–Marie Antoinette, Louise Fisher 60Ideas to Reality: Eiffel Tower, Maria B. Morekis 61Holding Death, Nivaska Eastwold 62Reflections, Sara Foraker 63Paddle I, David Hart 64Things Remembered, June S. Jones 65Boats at Mykenos, Lynda W. Cast 66Extensions, Regina Coley 67Serenity, Okeye Mitchell 68Reflections of Sunday, Amy Longhenry 69Mentor, Libby Guerry 70

Another Late Night In PurgatoryGordon WestI shook the cold from my boots, knocking them lightlyagainst the last brick step before the screen door. The skywas obscured by a film of cloud matter with the moon justbarely leaking through at one observable focal point of softlight. It brought to mind those flashlight-behind-blanketgames we’d played as children. You know, back when poweroutages spelled possibilities.My heels fell onto the kitchen tiles with a muffled thok,thok. I syncopated my footsteps as I crossed to the carpetedliving room, letting them sound off with a stifle and a beat:the thok of a drum in a paper bag. Thok, a pause, thok, thok,hesitation, thok, thok. The longnecks were still soaking in thesink, their labels fragmenting nicely into a still soup of watereddownDawn. They’d appeared the night before, and they’d begone by tomorrow evening, but they’d be replaced by the timeof the next job interview or blind date.The den was visibly occupied only by the muted lull ofthe television opposite me. It was mom’s nightlight: the softsheen of electric imagery. She always left it on for me. Youraverage Red Roof Inn will leave on a lamp in the room of a latearrival. Mother liked to leave me a TBS tearjerker. The monitor’sglow bathed the coffee table, easy chairs, and every surfacein between. At scene changes, the colors shifted around andmerged again with the wallpaper’s scattered grids and dots.I pushed open the door to my bedroom, raking it acrossthe carpeted flooring with a hushed ripple of a noise. I hoped Ihadn’t wakened mother; she’d have been asleep for a few hoursnow. The window blinds were open, daring the moonlight tostruggle inside past clouds, trees, and glass.In the bathroom, afterward, there was a murmurseeping through the wall. I had been brushing my teeth uponthe discovery. I placed a suspicious ear to the source, unable tomake out actual words. I could pick out the syllable-sounds ofWest / 1

“I” and “son” here and there. It might not have even been “son.”Maybe it was “God,” or perhaps “love,” though it was likely acombination of the three.I drew away, spit, and set my toothbrush along the rimof the sink before coming to an uneasy seat on the floor.“God out of machine” is something I would hear a lotfrom my high-school drama teacher. It stems from a Greekphrase that probably means nothing close to my quite literalinterpretation. But regardless, I’d always sort of latched ontothe concept. I’d always found “God out of machine.” The cleanwarmth of television static, voices on the other end of a phone, afaithful car engine, loving strips of magnet on the reverse sidesof credit cards, the cold steel comfort of the pistol underneathmy mattress. If He truly is everywhere, He might as well beswimming in a lithium battery.But in all my life, I’d never felt closer to God than when Iheard my mother praying in secret through the bathroom wall.2 / Blackwater Review

Rubber-neckingThomas LeightonIt took them an hour to drag it off the roadThat charred and twisted mess of steel and glassThose twin stilled engines that will never start againTwilight deepened and police began directing trafficCars like so many mindless creaturesInching forward at every urgently beckonedwhimBefore each movement came a pauseOccupants making the sign of the cross,Muttering generic fervent prayersOr gesturing, pointing, lingeringMesmerized in the wash of exhaust fumesOf idle, overheating enginesAnd the sullen red glare of taillightsFlickering as if to say, “I’m ahead of you. I always will be.”I will never forget the scene before my eyes that nightThe red sepulchral form beyond fogged and broken glassworkThe funeral motorcade in the sad and holy glow of headlightsA thousand strangers stopped for a momentTo pay their last respects, or just togawkAnd in the surreal clarity of that dark andSilent twilight vigilThat testament to human failingIf I strained my hearing hard enoughToward the still-smoldering pile of wreckageI could just discern the sound of settlingLeighton / 3

He Should Be The One to GoDeborah R. Majors...seven, eight, nine—sitting on the back porch, countinglightning bugs, I hear crying in their bedroom.Daddy doesn’t love her; he says he loves another.His words take time captive as the spear through my heartturns and twists. This must be how a sleepwalker feels,aware but cannot speak. Will I awaken to findmyself in bed, my favorite doll’s legs pinching me, wedgedbetween my arm and chest?Or will I wake to find myself just where I think I am:behind the house, on the porch? ...eighteen, nineteen, twentyflashing fire flies swarm the oak tree claimed by my initials,weaving in and out of our tire swing.He should be the one to go—the one to leave behindthe concrete step, memorial of handprints:Mommy’s, Brother’s, and mine. She said Dad’s little flingkept him away that day, but Grandma said it was a whore.(The mint julep makes Grandma say grownup words I’m notallowed to say.) They do not know I heard them talking, orthat the whore’s car is red. He should be the one to go.4 / Blackwater Review

Sunny Side DownElizabeth HawkinsElaine jumped back, stifling a yelp as the pan spit andhissed at her. She warily eyed the bacon. It was burnt in themiddle, and yet the edges remained light pink. She sighedas she flopped the greasy pieces onto a paper towel andattempted to scrape off the black crisp. Realizing she was onlyfurther destroying her and Derek’s breakfast, she moved on tomutilating some eggs. Carefully cracking one open on the sideof the pan, she plopped it down, breaking the yolk. It was goingto be one of those days.Derek walked out of the bedroom right as Elaine droppedthe second egg, splashing hot grease on the side of her stomach.She tried to hide her grimace, but Derek saw. He rushed overand gathered her in his arms, pulling her away from the stove.He laughed as he nuzzled her neck.“Why do you do that?”“What, make breakfast?”“Make breakfast topless.”“I’m wearing a bra. Besides, you never complainedbefore.” She stuck out her bottom lip in a fake pout. “It’s becauseI’m fat now, isn’t it?”He groaned and she knew she was being evil, pulling the“I’m fat” routine; no guy could ever win.“You didn’t get fat. You got pregnant.”She opened her mouth for a retort.“Your eggs are burning.” He pointed towards the stove.Already smoke was forming, and the stench of burnt food filledthe room.“Crap!” She rushed to save their breakfast, but it wastoo late. She slid the ruined eggs and bacon into the cat’s bowl.Mr. Flufficans sauntered over to investigate her offering, tookone sniff and high-tailed it out of the kitchen. Derek shook withlaughter.“Oh, shut up.”Hawkins / 5

“What? I didn’t say anything.” He threw his palms in theair as a sign of innocence.Elaine placed her hands on her hips. “I’d like to see youdo better.”Smirking, Derek scooped her up, ignoring her protestsand dumped her on the loveseat sofa that was in plain view ofthe kitchen. He then proceeded back into the kitchen, washedoff the pan, and started breakfast anew.It really was a wonder he could still pick her up, letalone carry her. She was quite a bit bigger than when he firstmet her. Now she carried the weight of an almost completelydeveloped baby. In her third trimester, she felt humungous andknew her newly acquired waddle made her seem anything butsexy. Derek’s ability to carry her made her feel a lot better aboutherself, although he probably could have carried two of herwith those giant arms. He sometimes called them his “guns,”but only to tease Elaine--or so she hoped. At least he never gotthem tattooed or made them “wave.”Watching him bustle around the kitchen, probablymaking the perfect breakfast, she entertained thoughts ofbeing his wife. This train of thought shocked her; she wasnever one to want to settle down. It took Derek three years toconvince her to move in. She finally gave in a year ago whenher landlady raised the rent in a bout of bad PMS that stillhadn’t seemed to have worn off. Elaine and Derek had beendating on and off, but when she moved in, Derek demandedexclusivity. Elaine had her doubts, but agreed. Four monthslater, she got pregnant.Both Elaine and Derek were surprised when she decidedto keep the baby. When Elaine found out, she told Derek shewas going to get rid of it. She wasn’t ready. Derek claimed heunderstood, but his eyes showed different. She felt bad butscheduled the abortion anyway. A baby would get in her way,would close doors in her life. She put on a brave face until shearrived at the clinic, where she walked through the doors, andher eyes met with those of a girl walking out. Grief, desperation,and guilt hid behind those over made-up lashes, and for the first6 / Blackwater Review

time Elaine thought about the little life inside of her, and shecouldn’t kill it. She could always put the child up for adoption.Derek laid out the perfectly crisp bacon, and she couldn’thelp but smile. The smile discredited her huff of annoyance asshe marched back to the bedroom to throw on a top. When shereentered the kitchen, Derek tugged on her shirt and tried tomimic her pouty puppy-dog face, but turned out to look morelike a constipated chipmunk. Elaine couldn’t help but laugh.“Wha-at?”“You.” She grinned and poked his nose. “Now where’smy eats?”He attempted a pelvic thrust. “Right here.” He threw ina wink and she rolled her eyes.“You’re hopeless.”“And you’re no fun.” He tossed some eggs and baconon a plate, grabbing the toast right as it popped up and beganbuttering. She was always amused with his uncanny way ofknowing when the toast was done. He handed the plate over,bowing like a butler. She snatched it and attempted to gracefullyslide to a chair at the table.Smelling decent food, Mr. Flufficans returned fromhis hideout in the bedroom. Derek pulled his foot back likehe was going to kick the animal as he went to join Elaine atthe table. She knew he wouldn’t. Mr. Flufficans was theirlove kitty. After deciding to keep the baby, Elaine insistedon getting a pet to “build their responsibility.” Derek agreed,but he wanted a dog. A manly dog. Upon arriving at the petstore, he picked out a pit bull named Trevor. Elaine took onelook at the dog and decided he would eat the baby. Instead,Elaine chose the sissiest animal in the store, a big white furball without a name. Derek resisted, but Elaine’s puppy-dogface far surpassed his in effectiveness, and ultimately he gavein. To add further insult to Derek’s injury, she named the catMr. Flufficans. Elaine was always doing things like that totorment Derek. Little things, nothing that would ever scarhim physically or mentally, but little insults to keep him inline. Let him know who was boss.Hawkins / 7

She knew by doing those things she was insecure,but she had been stomped on too many times to let people,particularly men, know her real feelings. She would tease andmake jokes about her feelings, but her heart had a solid, paddedwall around it. “Love” was a four-letter-word.After she had cleaned her plate and Derek had eatenthe last of his bacon, Elaine swept up their plates andscurried to the sink. Derek raced behind her, trying to grabthe dirty dishes.“Oh no, you don’t.” She ducked under his arm. “Youcooked. I clean.”He stayed behind her, playfully trying to snatch a plate.“You cooked, too. Or tried.”She bumped him out of the way with her butt andturned on the sink. They always fought over little chores, eachone trying to be more productive. “Besides, you have work to goto.” She pointed at the clock, and he let out a groan.“I still have another five minutes until I have to walk outthat door.” He smiled playfully.“You could leave now and be early. Now go; you’redistracting me and I have papers to grade.” She watched himslump back into their room to gather his work things.The suds popped on her hands and she smiled. Of courseshe didn’t want to wash dishes, but she knew he didn’t either.Maybe they were doing more than trying to be productive.Maybe they were trying to save each other from the fate ofdirty dishes and laundry, maybe they...“Hey, Babe?” Derek’s voice rang out from the kitchen.No, they were just trying to earn their keep. “Yeah?”“Where are my socks?”“Did you try the sock drawer?”“We have a sock drawer?”Elaine let loose a frustrated sigh as she walked to thebedroom, drying her hands on her jeans. Men. As she passedby the bed to the drawer, Derek pulled her down on the bed andbombarded her with kisses. Shrieking with girlish giggles, shepushed him off.8 / Blackwater Review

“That has to be the worst pick-up line ever.” She ledhim out of the room. “‘Where are my socks?’” she mocked. Sheshowed him out the door. “You are going to be late.”He paused before leaving, gazing into her eyes, lookingfor something. A ripple of emotion stirred inside her, and shepushed it down. “See you tonight.” She gave him a quick kissand slammed the door.She stood there and listened to him walk down the hall.After his last foot step faded away, she pressed her fingertipsagainst the door and whispered, “I love you.”Hawkins / 9

the internment camps of cold silence10 / Blackwater ReviewDaniel Davisi sat on the fascist side of her iron curtainthe frozen, impenetrable, implied wallthat she had hastily constructed between usin her free world she must enjoy such unearthly delightsfree trade, freedom of speech, a clean consciencecarefully approaching the sniper nests of her eyesthat guarded the barrier between usi tossed over a message in a weathered coke bottleremember when communication between uswas simple and constructive?a few warning shots later and i was sprinting for my bunkersmy old repositories for solitary confide-mentgoing back to the drawing boards wasn’t enoughi’d have to re-invent themdays passed, nearly a weekand no sympathizers or liberators came to callthe internment camps of cold silence seemed inescapablethe biting barbed wire accusations hung low and oppressiveand the white dove of peace and hopetorn apart by a pack of wild street dogs with vindication for fura week and i could stand no moremy feet had long turned blue from exposure to freezingunconfidencethe smock i had been assigned to wear was tatteredand torn with holes of malcontentand the badge that identified me that was to be worn at all timesthe crystal teardrop with apartheid boldly etched across ithad cracked and crumbled under the pressure of my resolute fist

it was time i made a move for freedomnot only for myself, but for my brethrenthe sons of taciturn perditioni made a run for itthe barbed wire, the vengeful dogs, the ocular snipersi ran as though there were no other reason to be but tohead bared down, i charged the wall with the wordsi’m sorryDavis / 11

april 23rd, 2010 (our end)Daniel Daviswe sat there on the oak bench in the park, hand in handmesmerized by the dawn of the endthe radio squelches transmissions of panic and defeatpeople around us are screaming, eyes widebut the only eyes i can see are yourswithin four hours, there will be nothing left herethe missile defense system was a liebut we couldn’t care about that right nowtripping terrified terrestrials clamoring for a solutionan easy way out, just as they always search forthree and a half, we’re well on our waythe sun is setting like a quarter sliding in a coke machineand your head rests on my shoulder as we stand in our gardenthe absurd, yet obvious thought occurs:how many people are having sex right now?copulating, initiating a reproductive process that will prematurelyslam to a haltso as not to be colored black in a herd of drowning wooly sheepwe water our flowers, so they mightin another lifetime, perhapsbecome closer to reproducingone and fifteen to go, we’re on our backs on the roof of our carthe stars were kind enough to make a final appearancea final casting call for the agesorion and sirius, companions as alwaysthe swan and the virgin, with the scorpion and the bullour optical applause for our host is interruptedby a little girl, wandering the street aloneshe cries and cries, but not for the obvious reasonshe weeps because she will not go to the zoo tomorrow12 / Blackwater Review

and see the lion and the zebra, the monkeys and the elephants(her favorites)approaching the appointed time, we find ourselves still stuckin the starswith an unwelcome bright point of light joining our lasttea party socialfivethe hunter is slashed in half by the lightfourthe pleiades nearly dodge intersectionthreethe point becomes a circle ever increasingtwothe circle howls a warning of its inevitable trajectoryonewe embrace, with tears like wine from a bottle of lifea flashDavis / 13

14 / Blackwater ReviewThe Quintessential NothingNathan PembertonIt was the sign about the pirates and the death of herfamily that made her so interesting. She was propped down nextto it, with a small glass positioned in front of her, her body restingon a small curb in a noisy, oversized park full of more people ratherthan trees. Her blue deck shoes were interesting too. Torn andexploding with bursting threads, they probably have never seen adeck. It was the oversized, baby blue sunglasses covering her eyeslike black saucers, reflecting the world into two separate convexrealities, that drove me into my mind.I couldn’t tell what she was looking at.Someone had given her a dollar. They had put it in herglass, which looked stolen from a hotel bathroom. You know,the ones that have the little white paper covers on them. Theglasses that no one ever uses because no one ever thinks theyget cleaned, but in reality they just never get touched by thepeople staying in the room or the people cleaning the room. Sothey just sit and glare at anyone who walks by them or remarksabout the illogical price of the elite brand of mineral watersitting proudly behind them.That was the first dollar the glass had seen. She lookedup at the old, fragile couple who had let the bill glide into itsnew home and let out a garbled string of sounds and mumbles.She said thank you, but she was speaking with her bug eyedglasses pointing straight up, the skin on her neck stretchingand contracting like an accordion. The old man reached to wraphis stiff, cardboard arm around his plumb plum of a wife, andthey rushed off away from the riffraff that filled the streets–streets paid for by tax paying citizens who liked to walk aroundtheir park without being hit up for money by attention hungrygirls with need of revenge.Of course, that was just an assumption on my part.She had been sitting in the open sun with her matted,black hair greedily absorbing the endless sun. Like night and day

oth being present at the same time, her hair was a contradictionto her shallow, reflective skin. I was reminded of sickly French girlswho lived in hospitals with incurable diseases.But she wouldn’t die.It was the sign about pirates and the death of herparents that made her so interesting. She wanted money forkarate lessons. She wanted revenge.Most people want revenge; some just want the money.I had been sitting on one side of a fat artery of the parkpulsing with people. She was across the way from me sitting,in the lotus position, with her bastard glass, her tired deckshoes, her swollen, full-moon glasses, and her sign stained andscrawled with the dirty red of a no-brand cylinder of lipstick.I considered wading across the bubbling sea of bodiesdividing us. I knew what would happen.Hello, I’d say with grin.What do you want? She through her up stretched neckand past the looking glass lenses—her eyes surrounding mygaze while refusing to acknowledge it.I want your name, I would say, still holding out.I want you to give me some money or get out of mysun. I’m cold.I would slip a dollar in her glass. I would slip my eyes inher gaze.She would hiss and, Jesus Christ, she would be lookingat me this time, what else do you want of me??I only wanted your name.It had been lunch hour. She was attracting moreglances and laughs. There had been more of the sun lyingupon the ground, adding pressure to every person’s footstepsand everyone’s breaths. Her cardboard sign was propped upagainst the bench she was crouched next to–the now hardenedlipstick scribbled surface bowing down to the midday rush andtemperature. She wasn’t paying any attention to the heat, andshe wasn’t moving around because of it.The sun, apparently, hadn’t been bothering her.Her sunglasses had been fixed to a spot I couldn’t see,Pemberton / 15

and though I could imagine it, I wanted her to be staring atsome corrupt, corporate form of a human being in a nice suitwalking along the dusty sidewalk in the park.She would be encouraged with her goals of economicallyresponsible revenge.Revenge.I had forgotten all about that.Who was she?In most cities, people sit like cargo waiting to be pickedup and dropped off for their employers. These people wait forbuses. I had been waiting for my bus, for my delivery.Some people aren’t items that are moved and handled.And some people are just in between, preferring the staticnature of the middle.She hadn’t been moving, it was so hot outside. I hadseen her yelp at a small puppy growling by with a young, stocksand bonds man on his bike. Her noise frightened the man. Hehad instantly veered his bright yellow frame into a crowd ofAsians clad in the t-shirts required for being tourists, with thepuppy’s narrow leash tangling through and around their poor,thin legs. They had said things in whatever Asian language thatbelonged to their country.I saw her lips crawl into tight grin.She looked of rebellion and small, infrequent meals. Sheprojected this around her little sign and torn shoes. It was everywhereand nowhere. From across our short little divide, I could envision thefuture. Her flimsy little sign was a puzzle. She was a puzzle. I hadnever met her. Never touched her.You can see your future with some people. You can seeyourself with some people months and years from the currentmoment like a portrait hung and lost in the endless maze ofthrift shop. You see the development of the colors, and slowlyyou see the face bones form, then the eyes form, and eventuallyyou see absence become presence and energy. And like fusionof color and lines, canvas and frame, you can see the fusion of16 / Blackwater Review

two bodies, two people colliding, and moving together. Likethe grand formation of the face and eyes, you can see thegrowth from awkward glances and touches of two strangersturn into longer conversations and deeper stares. You cansee the plural be realized into singularity and suddenly, youno longer care about you.Thoughts are scary and uninvited at times. They’restrangers trying to sell you visions and snake oil. They wantonly a home in return.She wanted vengeance for her family. Her pointy,angular movements were unstructured and unaligned. Herglass was half-empty. That lonely figure of a cardboard signwas slouching down towards the earth by the push of gravity’srelentless hand. I had crafted high hopes for her plan. I haddashed so far with my thoughts.I had been walking out of the park, past her collectionstation. I had been running to catch the bus, racing to meet myschedule. But I managed out a word with her.“I like the sign.” I have trouble talking when in a rush.My words are imbalanced and heavy. They were like that whenI spoke to her.“Oh, yeah, thanks.” Her head had bobbed, swiveled.Her eyes skipped in and out of mine.“You’ve made some money, too, eh?” I had said whilestaring at her glass. Her glossy sunglasses had been staring intomy thoughts. They had been reading my soul.“Yeah, I’m surprised by that. I had just found it,” shejabbed her thumb and arm towards the sign, “by the alley nextto my apartment.”Pemberton / 17

18 / Blackwater ReviewYour Eyes Have No TitleCaitlin PiersonIf I could dive into your deep blue eyesswim through your crowded irisinvestigate its murky depthsWhat wonders would I find there?Sea shellsand hermit crabs—traveling bachelors,a trunk—blossoming sunflower of gold doubloons—the twinkle in a Spaniard’s smileAnd perhapsan occasional wreck of ship with scattered debrisand sailors picked cleanby sharks that patrol the deeper layers, leavingOnly a pair of bootsand a pressed cotton uniforman angler fishwaving his false-lightA tiny glow reminding of a timewhen the sun seemed so nearbefore you enterhis gluttonous jawsReleasing bubbles of air up to the surfacelost diverscrawl through the muck toward his glimmer,Not caringonly lustingfor the way outof this constrictingdarkness

Face MeCaitlin PiersonWhy did you have to save face?I liked your crooked, snaggle-toothed grinit matched mine to almost mirror perfectionand finding a match to anything brings new wondersto lightInstead you chose to replace your facewith a cocky, satisfied smirkbut apply the nail polish remover(non acetate)and there will be leftthe wilted lip and limp lifeless lookof one who has eatenan unripe persimmonAnd I have my ownbasket full of shriveled peachescovered in the tiny fliesand I’m not ashamed to sit themon the doorstepand let them air outas their putrid sweet perfumefills gusts of wind and sticky lungsIt’s as unavoidable to breatheas cigarette smokein the dark lit coffee shop in L. A.(Lower Alabama)with the dead fish decorating wallsand the waitress who remembers your first nameEventually all our alveoliwill be saturated with my chagrin and shamePierson / 19

while yours will still be coveredin different shades of polishunderneath the layers of your faceI want to see your smilecrack the mirrors surroundingI want to see your smilethe way it isas broken and as tired20 / Blackwater Review

FineAli FisherIt was still dark when my alarm went off this morning.W.T. Sherman High School starts an hour earlier than Lee MiddleSchool, and Ohio is significantly colder in September thanAlabama ever was. I got up and rubbed my eyes, but it didn’thelp. My room had that strange artificial look that comes onlyin the middle of the night. I looked around, my eyes trying toadjust to the light from my lamp. Boxes were still piled everywhere.I went over to my chair, where I had laid out my clothesthe night before: a pink sweater and a denim skirt with pinksneakers. As soon as my feet hit the cold floor, it started, a nervousknot in the pit of my stomach, sucking the courage andlife out of me like a giant cancer. I closed my eyes and tried torelax, and that helped me feel better.My mom was nice enough to offer to drive me to schoolso I didn’t have to ride the bus on the first day. I guess she figuredit was the least she could do. For a while, she had beenthinking about a job offer up here with the Ohio Tribune, but shecouldn’t convince Daddy to move. This past summer, when shefound out that Daddy was sleeping with his secretary namedMissy, she threatened to divorce him, take me, and get the job.He screamed something like “See if I care.” So she did it.First period got the day off to a terrible start. My teacherwas Coach Meyers, who taught history and gym. I got lost inthe hallways and came in late, so he made me come up to thefront of the class and explain why I was late. Everyone else hadbeen to the orientation and knew where their classes were. Ididn’t. The room looked like a prison cell with desks. There wereno windows, and the harsh fluorescent lights cast their sicklyglow onto the prisoners, all unaware of their captivity.The rest of the day was hellish. I got lost three moretimes, got ignored by my classmates, and got hit in the facewith a volleyball in P.E. After school, when Mom came to pickme up, I wanted to break down and sob. I wanted to tell her thatFisher / 21

I hated her for making me come here, that I hated Dad for leaving,that I hated school, and that I hated myself, but I couldn’t.I just sat in the front seat and stared blankly ahead througheyes full of tears.Now, I go to a school with three-thousand otherpeople, and not one of them would notice if I never showedup again. I miss my friends in Alabama. Of course, I can’t tellthem how much I hate it here. When I call Ashley, I’ll tell herthe same thing I tell everyone else: “I’m fine, just fine.”22 / Blackwater Review

The Retard MusedJoanna SoriaA pair of thirty-dollar flip-flops with turquoise beadssaunter by, and I am captivated; I have missed seeing you,how you thoughtfully chew your cud and wear your hip huggerslike a national flag; the flag of Bolivia, if you’re interestedfeatures red, yellow, and green stripes.Those gold streaks bleed through your hair like processed sunlight;and a Chinese symbol (which probably standsfor love or understanding) peeks from the back of your necklike a label; my mom used to label my underpants, by the way.Sometimes she does; I guess there’s always the risk of mestripping down and skipping naked over the countryside, leaving myunderwear helpless and unclaimed: “If found, please return to...”Madison, I’ll bet your name is Madison, because Madisonis currently the most popular girls’ name in the countryaccording to surveys, but I digress.You bite your glossy lip and avert your eyes, determined to thinknothing of me; you spit your gum onto the sidewalk,and you do it prettily, but there is an iridescent gasolinepuddle on the street that demands my interest; thank youfor your time and awkward glances.Soria / 23

24 / Blackwater ReviewGoodbye Stranger:The Beginning of the EndJohn BruckelmeyerMike averted his eyes from the waitress’s too tight, giveme-a-big-tipt-shirt. He wasn’t the kind of guy to stare. At leasthe didn’t want to seem like that kind of guy.“Is there anything else I can get for you tonight?” Sheflashed a toothy grin. “A refill on your ice water?”“No.” Mike pushed the plate between him and Christina.“No, we’re good, thank you.”“All right, if you do need anything else, let me know,‘kay?” She bounced away, leaving Mike and Christina alone ontheir half of the diner.Mike picked up his BLT (with extra B and no T) andtook a bite. Christina plucked lightly salted fries from the plateone by one, chewing each one as if it were a whole meal. Theother side of the booth was reserved for Stan, who was runninglate. He was supposed to get off a half hour after they did, butthe manager asked to see him in her office. It probably hadsomething to do with the cart full of cleaning supplies thatsomehow vanished.“Man, Ms. Gordon must be chewing him out big time,”Mike said, breaking the silence. Mike was perplexed. Sheseemed okay when he picked her up on the way to work earlier.As soon as they got off, though, she barely said a word to himother than she felt like some French fries. He didn’t get to seeher very much while they were working, but she didn’t mentionanything horribly wrong except for that cart.Christina shrugged and grabbed another fry.“You don’t suppose he can get in too much troubleover that, do you?” Mike covered his mouth with his freehand as he chewed and talked. “I mean, Poncho set the trashcompactor on fire. He didn’t even get written up. At least Idon’t think he did.” He finished up the rest of the sandwichand brushed his hands off on his pants. “But, you know,

Stan’s been doing a crappy job at work anyway. I think it’shis new girlfriend.”“She’s not that new. They’ve been going out for likefour months now.”“Yeah, but doesn’t he seem like he doesn’t careanymore? He’s like a new Stan. He’s Stan 2.0.”“And this is her fault?”“Well, mostly his fault. But yes, her fault as well.”“I see.” She put her elbow on the table.Mike stared at Christina. He could sense she wasn’ton his side at all. Her chin perched on the end of her fist ina thinking pose. They’d only known each other since theystarted working together about eight months ago, whichsome people could call a long time. But the way they hit itoff, it seemed like they’d been friends for years. They liked allthe same things. Movies, games – even the same hobbies. Itseems they were both the artistic type. But if anyone asked,Mike insisted Christina was the better artist.He stared for a bit, admiring her feathery black hairand the slight curve of her mouth. She turned her head towardthe window. She was definitely not on his side today.“Hey, are you mad at me?”“No, I’m cool.”“You sure?” Mike reached out, almost touching herarm before pulling back. “’Cause I mean–”“Woo!” The entrance swung open and Stan marchedin. “Guess what?” He plugged himself in the bench acrossfrom them and a toothy grin tore across his face.“What?”“I got fired!” Stan snorted a small laugh.“What?!” Mike spat. “What for? That stupid cart?”“Well, obviously it wasn’t that indispensable, was it?”He reached across the table and grabbed one of Christina’sfries. “I mean, I’m fine with it. I absolutely loathe thattheater anyway.”“What about Christina? Is she in trouble? She wasworking with you.”Bruckelmeyer / 25

“Nah, I was the supervisor. I’m the one who incurs allthe penalties.”Christina pushed on Mike’s arm. “Hey, move over. I haveto use the bathroom.” He scooted off the end, and she marchedover to the restrooms on the other side.Mike leaned over the table. “Hey, do you know what’swrong with her today? She seems pissed.”“I have no clue.” Stan reached for another fry.“Menstruation?”“Whatever. Take the fries. We’re done.”Stan grabbed the plate and pulled it to his side.“So how in the world did you get fired, again?” Thisquestion baffled Mike. In the entire eight months he workedat the theater, not a single person was fired. Stan had workedthere for over a year already.“Like I said, it was about those supplies that vanished.”“Mhmm.” Mike had a hard time believing that Ms. Gordonwould fire anyone over some stupid cleaning supplies. “Now thatyou’re gone, who am I going to be working with now? Rachel? Ugh.”“Relax. You still have Christina. Ms. Gordon practicallygives you guys the same schedule every week anyway. Youproposing any time soon, by the way?”Mike’s veins pulled taut. Christina was a sensitivesubject, and his best friend ought to know that. The temptationto throttle Stan 2.0 was steadily increasing. “Listen, it’s nobody’sbusiness. I like the way we are. I don’t want to put that on theline. It’s not worth it.”“Right. You guys car pool almost every shift. You’realways around her. I mean, look, you’re eating off the sameplate. Isn’t that cute? I assume you’re paying.”“Shut your face.”“Uh huh. I can talk to her if you want.”“Do not!” Mike thrust his index finger at Stan menacingly.“Seriously, don’t. I will kill you.”“Aw, come on. You know--I used to think that too.But I finally brought myself to ask out Emily, and look, ourrelationship has improved dramatically.”26 / Blackwater Review

Mike had just about enough of Emily. “Oh, yeah, andyour life’s so great now. So now you get to spend all your timewith her now that you’re fired.”“The job’s not that important.”“Yeah, well, neither are your friends, apparently.”Stan pushed away the plate and stood up. “All right,fine. I’m done with this.”“All right. Bye.”Mike averted his eyes as Stan blew back out thedoor, leaving him with an empty booth and some mangledfries. For at least three minutes the grill became the loudestpresence in the room.Christina returned from the restroom. “Where’s Stan?”“He left.” Mike pulled his wallet from his pocket. “I’mgoing to go pay for our food.”“How much was it? I’ll pay for half.”“Nah, that’s all right.” Mike fished for a twenty. “I got it.”Breaking the Camel’s BackStan knocked on the door, and he was invited in by amuffled “it’s not locked.” Ms. Gordon was perched behind herdesk; her fat body rocked back and forth in her swivel officechair. Papers cluttered her desk, and a half empty box of Chinesefood seemed to hold it all down. The tiny office only madethe burly woman look even bigger.“Go ahead, take a seat, Stanley.” He abhorred when shecalled him Stanley. Of course, she called him that constantly.She pushed aside her kung pao chicken. Producing aform from the pile of papers, she placed it neatly in front ofStan along with a pen.“You can read that and then sign it at the bottom.”Stan scanned over it. It was a write-up form, with all theinformation filled out about the cart and all the supplies thatdisappeared on his shift that day.He spun the paper back around. “What’s this right here?”“Well,” she cleared her throat. “We’re just going toBruckelmeyer / 27

deduct the money to replace the cart and its supplies fromyour paycheck.”“Um, I really don’t think I should have to pay for that.”“Well, we really have no other choice. You just have tosign it at the bottom and we’ll be done with it.”“I am not signing that.”She straightened her posture. “Well, you have to.”“Did Poncho have to pay to replace the trash compactor?”“The trash compactor didn’t need to be replaced.”“Did he get written up for it?”The manufactured professional manager tone faded fromher voice, and now her annoyance was beginning to shine through.“Stanley, that is none of your business. That’s between him andme, and nobody else. Right now you need to worry about yourself.You were the supervisor on shift today, and you’re responsible forthe people and equipment during that time. You lost an entire cartfull of cleaning supplies. Where is it?”This was getting tiresome. He’d been asked that severaltimes today. Stan shrugged. “Beats me.”“Well, if you don’t know, and you couldn’t find it, it has tobe replaced. You were responsible for it; you need to replace it.”“Oh, come on. That piece of crap needed to be replacedanyway. The front wheels were practically rusted sideways. Thedamn thing kept jackknifing into the wall. And we have dozensof the exact same cleaning supplies in the storage room. You’rejust taking this opportunity to get it replaced without any expenseto the theater.”“Excuse me?” Her already flush cheeks began to burneven brighter.“Well? Am I right or am I right?”“Where is the cart, Stanley? What were you doing insteadof your job? Answer me that.”“Well, I was on my way to one of the theaters to cleanup a mess – some kid left a little present on the floor. On theway I saw Christina, and it was imperative that I talk to her, soI pulled her aside into one of the storage closets, and when Icame out, it was missing.”28 / Blackwater Review

“And what was so imperative that you had to talk to herthen and not after work?”“Honestly, that’s none of your business.”“Excuse me? Stanley, it is my business when you costthis theater money because you aren’t doing your job.”“Well excuse me, Barbara, but apparently it’s not costingthe theater any money if you’re going to deduct the moneyfrom my paychecks, is it?” Stan crossed his legs.“Do you want to keep this job?”“Well, if I did I’d have to receive a raise.”“A raise?!”At this point, Stan almost had to fight off his smile.“I don’t get paid much here, and pretty much all I do is throwaway everyone’s garbage and clean up after them. The way I seeit, I don’t get paid nearly enough to do that and have to sit hereand listen to you talk to me like this. So I figure, if I’m expectedto listen to you condescend to me, I should be compensatedfor it. Unless of course you wanted to go pick up that kid’s analexcretions yourself.”Ms. Gordon snatched up the write-up and tossed it inthe trash can next to her. “Well, if that’s how you feel, then youdon’t need to be here. Goodbye, Sir.”“Fantastic.” The only reason Stan had stayed at the job wasbecause he liked working with Mike and Christina. Other thanthat there was nothing else here. Besides, his girlfriend convincedhim he didn’t need this job in the first place. He could just use themoney he saved up to pay for college classes and get a managementlevel job elsewhere–one that wasn’t under this heaving wretch.Stan reached in his pocket and pulled out his storageroom keys and tossed them onto her desk. “You forgot to askme for my keys. I’d hate for you to have to write off those aswell.” She didn’t respond. He stood up and slipped through thedoor. “Hey, you mind if I use this place as a reference?”“Goodbye, Sir.” She didn’t look up.“Arrivederci, Gordo.” The door clicked behind him. Thatdidn’t take too long. Mike and Christina were probably stillwaiting for him.Bruckelmeyer / 29

30 / Blackwater ReviewThe End of the BeginningChristina never really noticed how nice and warmMichael’s car was before. She thought about how he used todrive around with the air conditioner on full blast because heliked it cold. At some point she remembered mentioning howit felt like riding around in a meat locker. She mentioned thatto Stan, actually. And suddenly now he drives with the air off.After that talk with Stan earlier, everything seemed to fall intoplace–it all made perfect sense.“Man,” Michael gritted his teeth. “Can you believe Stangot fired? Seriously, nobody gets fired over there.”“Apparently they do.” She hated that. The only reasonany of them stuck around that job was because they had funworking with each other. Stan wasn’t going to be aroundanymore. The mere thought made her want to quit as well.“I seriously think it’s his girlfriend.”“And how is that?” Christina wanted to agree with him.But she had to admit, Emily really was a nice girl.“Hear me out for a minute.” He held up his finger. “Hegets so much attention from her now, he probably doesn’t evencare if he’s around us anymore, you know? So that’s why he’sbeen slacking so much. Maybe he was trying to get fired.”“That’s ridiculous.”“No, really. And I bet she doesn’t like him having thatjob either. He’s always complaining about it. Complaining aboutthe messes he has to clean up, or the idiotic customers, or Ms.Gordon being an ass. I bet she encouraged him to do it.”Christina had nothing to say to that. She stared out thewindow into the darkness. Her favorite CD was playing in thecar. Of course it was. Michael probably went out and boughtit specifically so she could listen to it when they were drivingaround.They stopped at a red light, and Michael tapped her onthe shoulder. “Hey, are you sure you’re all right?”“Yeah.” She reached over and put on the air conditioning.“I’m hot.”

“Okay. You just seem down. I’ll turn down thevolume for you.”“Thanks.” Christina brushed her hair behind her earsand eyed the passing streetlights along the road. She hated thisarea. It was so small and there was nothing here for anybody.College would have been a great ticket out, but she didn’t hopon that train when it came by, and now it would be even harderto catch. If only she had just gone straight out of high school.She looked over at Mike. Stan was perfectly right, andshe’d been kicking herself ever since their talk. She couldn’tunderstand why she never thought about that before. Mikewas a nice guy, and he was really sweet to her, but she justdidn’t want it to go in that direction. She didn’t want to leadhim on. But according to his best friend, that time had comeand gone a while ago.By the time they reached Christina’s house, the car wasso cold the windows were beginning to fog up. She unclaspedher seatbelt and opened the car door. “Thanks for the ride.”“No problem.” Michael waved. “Feel better.”“Mhm.” She almost closed the door.“Hey.”“Yeah?”“You work tomorrow?”“Yeah.”“Want me to pick you up?”“No.” Christina thought about it for a moment. An airof disappointment washed over Michael’s face. “No, I think I’mgoing to drive myself tomorrow.”“Ah.”“I think I’m going to ask to get off early.” She thoughtabout not showing up. Maybe she wouldn’t show up to workever again. She could just stay home and practice her drawing,and not answer the phone.Michael nodded. “All right then, maybe next time.Goodnight, Chris.”“Goodbye, Michael.” She shut the door and watched hisheadlights pull away.Bruckelmeyer / 31

Wal-Mart’s Parking Lot: A Catalyst32 / Blackwater ReviewDeborah R. MajorsThursday nightin Wal-Mart’s parking lot,my son carries Grandpa’s gait, the traits of the future,the present, the past, and the list, as I sit in our mini-vanwith no make up, unsprayed hair, and barefootwhile he, having grown strong and tallno longer needs my mamma bear presence.He disappears into the lighted glass caveto tackle the family’s weekly huntingexcursion. An ink filled weapon in hand,he is ready to decipher the crumpled map and dodgehungry fellow hunter-gathererswho push and pull loaded wagonsof berries, roots, and grains to take back to their lairs.The windows whirr to let the outside cool my skin,move my hair, and fill my car with recognizable heavinessand unknown familiar smellsasIdescendin a crayon blue green1960 something Chevy Malibu.The air hovers thick and hot,it won’t rain for days but the drops of moistureare almost visible, being coaxed from their place in midairby the balmy breezetravel brochures describe as Miami’s own.Poles that wish they could touch the mooncradle lights that make our eyes hurtto stare at them and see how highwe can count till we blink,reflect off windshields, side mirrors,chrome wrapped headlights just doused

y their drivers, a Giant Silver Slide with five slots for burlap sack riders,hubcaps freshly polished, red domes on ambulancesacross the street, revolving doors sending mine back to me,plate glass windows revealing too much,and the tears in the eyes of the grown ups as they climb in the caras if in slow motion,One. By. One.I want to raise my voice, be disrespectful for once, tellDad’s twin sisters to stopspeaking their mysterious covertly coded Pig Latin.They don’t have to keep it a secret.My brother and I knew when they called the house Grandma’sthat he is gone. Besides, don’t they knowkids invented igpay atinlay?Leaving the parking lot, my little head turns;I look out the back window as if in a black and white movie,to take a final look at the parking lot of the strip mall,for we won’t be coming here anymore after late nightvisits to the hospital.Nearing the highway, I smell Smells—I don’t know what they are,but I memorize them anyway—I can’t miss anything—Palm Trees,The Lines and ArrowsPainted on the Tar,Black Tire Marks,Clicking turn signals,“Mom, unlock the back. Mom?”calls the Present, tapping on the back window, smilingwith the smile of an old man he never knew.“Mom?”insists my proud young hunter,successful in carrying the family’s treasured golden sustenanceand, loaded in a pushable wagon,his prized haul for the weekwrapped in white recyclable skins.Grandpa would be proud of us both.Thursday nightin Wal-Mart’s parking lot.Majors / 33

EstrangedNicole MerendaDown in the shallow grave, the hole beside the house,shot between the eyes, out of his misery,the pig’s head with that writhing necklace of flies,left with only a tangle of pink innards, and dirt.Our neighbor the farmer, gone nowto prepare this terrible feast and leave the ruinsalone to rot--now the worms will feast, too.My kindred spirit, destroyed by those who raised him.Myself, your daughter, left with only that image:Pig’s head--buzzing necklace--and dirt.From that grave in my mindmuddy feelings sprout like nettle,waiting one day to be pickedand given to the mother that walked away foreverfrom red-soaked grass, the dirt . . . and me.34 / Blackwater Review

Too YoungAshley DownieLaura. Everybody liked her; everybody wanted to beher. She was the girl with the perfect body, perfect face, perfecthair, perfect...everything. As she climbed the popularity levelin high school, I found myself trying harder and harder to keepup because she was my best friend, and I felt that if she weregoing to be at the top, it was my privilege to be there with her.Laura had just moved into her mother’s new apartmentthat week, and I had not been over to see it yet. “It’s not muchto look at, but my neighbors are cool. This guy Corey lives nextdoor and he’s really hot! He has an older brother, too. Youshould hook up with him. So what do you say? Tomorrow afterschool? My place?”I hesitated. An older guy? How much older were wetalking here?“I don’t know. I have to study for my Spanish test, and...”“Oh, come on. You already have like a 110 in the class, Idon’t think you need to worry. Besides, it will be fun. Don’t besuch a drag.”“Yeah, okay. Tomorrow after school. See you in third.”The next day we walked to her complex from thehigh school. It wasn’t very far, which was good, because myexcitement was getting the best of me. I couldn’t wait to seeher new place. I had completely forgotten about the older guy Iwas to meet.We crossed the parking lot toward her apartment. Therewas one lonely tree in the middle of a huge lawn that was shared byall the residents in the complex. Every apartment was identical.There were no lawn decorations or door ornaments or anythingof the sort to add personality to the individual apartments. Thecomplex itself appeared to be well groomed, though.The people, on the other hand, were not so nice looking.One man, for example, sat on the steps leading up to one ofthe apartments, wearing a shirt that was so small on him thatDownie / 35

it came up just above his navel, and the shirt was stained andholey. His hair was shiny and kind of clumped together as if ithadn’t been washed in days. I could just imagine the sickeningsmell of his dirty hair. The others that I saw were similar,including Laura’s new next door friends. Laura definitely didnot fit in here.We walked up the sidewalk to her apartment, and thetwo guys sat on the concrete steps leading up to both their doorand Laura’s door.“This is Corey and Dave.”They smiled and nodded their heads at me. Laura didn’ttell me who was who, but she didn’t have to. The five o’clockshadow, along with his size, gave Dave away.“Let’s go inside. It’s too hot out here,” ordered Laura.So there we all sat in Laura’s new living room. It wasnothing special by any means. In fact it sort of reminded me ofa small office building: it didn’t have that “home” type of feelingto it. It even smelled like an office...the smell of paper mixedwith that of fresh paint.The floors were the kind of cheap, white tile that youwould see in a classroom, and the walls were stark white withno decorations. Not even a family portrait or anything. Theblinds were tilted shut, darkening the room with a stormytint of gray.“What do you think?”“It’s not bad!”Laura smiled. Wow, did I just lie through my teeth!“Thanks. I like it, too.”The conversation after that was limited to nauseatingflirtation between Laura and Corey. I didn’t say a word. Davemade smoke rings as he puffed on his Marlboro Lights, andLaura and Corey began wrestling each other on the floor.“Wanna take this outside?” Laura asked Corey.“How ‘bout we take it into your room?”Laura hopped up and pulled Corey with her.“Don’t worry. We won’t be long,” Laura giggled, as theymade their way down to hallway.36 / Blackwater Review

It was uncomfortable for me considering that I was a14-year-old girl with nobody to talk to but a man who had to beat least 22. But I made the best of it. We talked for a while aboutstupid stuff. You know, music, movies, and any other small talkwe could think of, with the occasional compliment on the waymy eyes were like pools of water or my hair was like sunshine.“I wanna show you something that I bought recently,”Dave said to me.“Okay, what is it?”He pulled out this silver metal thing that looked to melike a giant pocket knife. I didn’t know what made him showthis to me so out of nowhere.“Do you know what it is?” Dave asked me, probablyseeing that I wasn’t very interested.“Well, no, but it looks cool. Is it a pocket knife?”“No. This is a double-bladed butterfly knife.” Heunfolded the knife and did some sort of tricky wrist movementwith it. He then ran his finger along the blade, slicing into hisrough flesh. “What a psycho,” I thought. Why would he want topurposely cut himself?“They are highly illegal,” he told me, now running hisstubby fingers up and down the side of the blade, smearing hisblood and looking at the knife as though it was some rare jewelor something. I thought he would literally drool over the stupidthing. I still didn’t see what he was so excited about. It was justa dumb knife.Dave folded up the knife, squeezed it back into hispocket, and wiped the rest of the blood on his jeans. Hereached his arm around me, bringing me close to him. Thesmell of stale cigarettes filled my nose. I began to get a littlenervous with his arm around me, but I told myself to stopbeing such a child. He was probably just trying to makeme feel more comfortable. After all, my friend had in factdeserted me for her non-boyfriend.Dave rested his head on the back of the worn sofa withhis eyes closed. He had his hair buzzed, but it looked like ithadn’t been done in a few weeks. He had rough features and aDownie / 37

strong bone structure in his face. His chapped lips were slightlyopen, and I noticed that his teeth looked like they belonged toa man of 60. “I better not make any false moves,” I thought.“They might rot right out of his head and fall into his lap.”I rested my head on his big shoulder. I figured I might aswell get comfortable because it didn’t look like Laura and Coreywould be back out too soon. His hand rested on his torn, dirtyjeans, and I saw that his fingernails were dirty as well.“What are you looking at, Cutie?” Dave asked. He musthave sensed my eyes observing him. I didn’t have time to answerbefore he heaved me up onto his lap.“I don’t think this is such a good idea,” I said to him.“I won’t hurt you, Honey. As long as you let me love you,I won’t hurt you.”Now I knew I wasn’t being childish. Something wasn’tright here. He had me cradled on his lap like a little baby, butthen lifted me with the arm that was sustaining my back sothat I was facing him. My legs were still lying to his right side.“You really do have the most beautiful golden hair.” Heran his tar-stained fingers through my hair.“Sit up and face me,” Dave commanded, but tenderly.“But I am facing you,” I replied, a little puzzled.“No, I mean straddle me. I want you to straddle me.”I didn’t move.“What’s the matter? You didn’t like my new toy? Is thatit?” he said, grinning menacingly, his brown and yellow teethlaughing at my helplessness.Oh my God, the knife. He had that knife in his pocket.What if I didn’t do what he told me to? It was so sharp. It hassliced his finger with the slightest touch to his skin. Would hepull out the knife and stab the life out of me, leaving my mortalremains for my friends to find? I moved to straddle him, and hepulled my body so tightly against his that he almost knockedthe wind out of me.“Now kiss me.” I kissed him with closed lips, but heforced his tobacco-flavored tongue into my mouth, movingit around so fast that it felt like an oversized maggot38 / Blackwater Review

squirming around. Then he shoved his grimy hand up mypink Tinkerbell shirt.I thought it was over because he began to stand up. Ahuge wave of relief passed through me, and then he wrappedhis hairy, muscular arms around my underdeveloped body andthrust me against him. There was truly nothing I could do if Ididn’t want him to hurt me, or worse. If I screamed for Laura,he might hurt her, too. So I went along.I felt his hands slide slowly up and down my back,and then down, down, down until he slipped them justbarely into the back of my jeans. He brought his hand slowlyaround to the front and started to undo my button, but hedidn’t get it open.The bronze handle on the front door began to jiggle as ifsomeone was unlocking it. He ripped his hands away from mybutton and sat quickly on the couch as the door swung open,hitting the colorless wall with no mercy.“Well, hi, girl! How are you? I haven’t seen you inforever.” It was Laura’s mom. She was home from work. I staredvacantly at her, half happy to see her and half angry that it tookher so damn long to get home.“What’s the matter, Sweetie? You look like you just seena ghost! Where’s Laura?” she asked, totally oblivious that thisman had just almost raped me. What was the matter with her?Couldn’t she sense that something was terribly wrong?“She’s in her room with Corey.” At this point I didn’t careif she got mad at Laura for having a boy in her room, althoughsomehow she never seemed like the type of parent who wouldmind such a thing. She was never home and made up for herabsence in Laura’s life by letting her do whatever she wanted.“I need to go home. I don’t feel so good,” I said.Dave stood up from the couch, and Laura and Coreywalked out of Laura’s room. They must have heard Laura’s mothercome in. Corey and Dave started towards the front door.“Lovely to see you, Mrs. Myers,” said Dave, turning hiseyes to me. “And nice to meet you, Amber.” How could he actlike nothing had just happened?Downie / 39

After the guys left, Mrs. Myers, Laura, and I left for myhouse. When we walked out the screen door, I felt as if I werecoming out of a jail cell. I breathed in the air and felt relief. Yes,Dave had had his hands on me, but I was still alive and still avirgin. The sunshine had never felt better on my face than it didat that moment.40 / Blackwater Review

I Wish You Wanted FriesElizabeth Traxel“What kind of bread do you want on your BMT, sir?” thesubway worker asks, for a second time.The man simply shoots her a “shut-the-hell-up” look ashe asks his wife, over his cell phone, what kind of bread shewants. It appears to the worker that he doesn’t quite get thatshe can hear every part of his conversation. The phone has towork and is demanding that her husband bring her lunch. Thesubway worker empathizes with night shift.She lets her mind wander as she lays down six slices ofpepperoni. This is the least exciting conversation she’s ever heard.She lays down the next layer of six slices of salami. Sheglances at the clock: 1:32am. I hope I can get out of here by 2:30. Ihave to get some sleep, she says to herself as she put on the fourslices of ham.“What kind of cheese?” she asks. The question isrepeated once again into the cell phone. “Provolone” is theresponse she hears. Picking up the cheese and laying downfour slices, she thinks back over her day. School, homework,work, sleep. She laughs silently at the mention of sleep. Iwish, she says silently.“Do you want this toasted?” she questions the phonerather than the man, as she knows which one will give thecorrect response. The man simply stares at the worker, as ifhe’s never heard the word before. “No,” comes the audible replyfrom the phone.Sliding the sandwich down towards the vegetables, sheinquires if the man wants another sandwich; he shakes his head“no” and starts to list sauces. Picking up the bottles, she drawslines of mayonnaise, mustard and sweet onion sauce across thebread, not the meat, but the bread, as her customer’s phoneinforms her. She recalls the first day she started working here.Knowing nothing, nobody expected you to do anything. Shemisses the ignorance. She knows this place too well.Traxel / 41

“Lettuce, tomato, onion, pickles, olives, three jalapeños,and peppers,” he informs the girl without a single pause.Lettuce, tomatoes, onions, pickles, olives, three jalapeños. Sheasks, “Which kind of peppers, green or yellow?” He glares at herand spits the word “bell” at her. She smiles brightly. Placing thegreen peppers on the sandwich, she wishes him dead.She starts to move the sandwich when his phonedemands salt and pepper, oil and vinegar. She falters, butscoots the sandwich back in front of the veggies. Pouring onthe requested items, she carefully makes her mind blank. Itwould be bad to throw a sandwich at the customer.Wrapping the sandwich inside the paper, she moves totake off her gloves and ring up. “Did you want a fresh value mealwith that?” she asks oh-so-sweetly. “No,” he replies, “but I did wantanother sandwich.” Narrowing her eyes, she gets fresh gloves.“What kind of bread did you want?”42 / Blackwater Review

Road TripSara Richardson“Have you gone through this box yet?” I ask Jamie.“Yeah, you can go ahead and take that out to the car.” Hervoice is slightly muffled in the closet. Only her backside from hershoulders to her toes is visible to me, erected on an old aluminumstepladder, dressed in a lime green tank top, black denim jeansshrink-wrapped to her thighs and buttocks, and purple monkeysocks. This is my wife, as of thirty days ago.I carry the cardboard box down the narrow staircaseand turn the sharp corner, careful to maintain my balance.There is no telling what is inside this box. I am careful not tolet the loose flaps hit me in the face. Duct tape never crossedher mind, nor mine until I find myself in such a precarioussituation. Once out the front door I set the box down in thedriveway to open the trunk of our ’95 four-door Chevy, theproduct of our composite college funds, what was left ofthem, that is. Just then I realize I forgot to take the car tothe auto shop. We have a long road trip ahead of us, fromOklahoma City to Houston.I look at my watch: quarter to noon. Tomorrow willbe a good day to set out. On childhood road trips Dad wouldsay we just crossed the Pennsylvania-Maryland border, theMaryland-New Jersey, the New Jersey-New York; it mademe feel as if we traveled farther in less time. But on this tripthere will be no such earmarks, just the Oklahoma-Texasborder. I wonder if the tedium will get to me, make me fidgetlike a boy, if Jamie will take the wheel for a while. She’s notgood at driving long distances. Last time she fell asleep atthe wheel—I never prayed harder in my life than that nightin the hospital waiting room.As I’m putting the box in the trunk, I pull out one ofJamie’s old swim team medals: second place. Next to it is a ribbonof accomplishment for third grade tap dancing. She nevertold me about that.Richardson / 43

I know she can hear my boots clunking up the stairs.On the stairwell lies her old brown teddy bear. Its fur is mattedand soiled, and one of its eyes is missing. It must have fallenout of the box. I pick it up in my hand, and as I open the doorshe is sitting on her twin bed Indian style with a closed leatherboundphoto album in her lap. She looks up at me and smiles.“I wanted to wait to open this with you.”“What’s inside?”She pats the bed. “Come and find out.”She flips through these pages and tells me about herseventh grade summer camp experience and her fifth gradeHalloween costume. I turn my eyes from the pictures to her,and I wonder how much of her I don’t know, and how muchabout whom she will become.44 / Blackwater Review

Confirmation ClassJessica BorsiThe girl sat, unnoticed, in her regular seat, ignoring herpeers as they bashed anything and everything that moved, butit all ceased the moment the pastor entered. Then they suddenlybecame angels.Hypocrites all.The man seated himself in front of them, and so beganthe lesson. Katherine tuned out at first, her mind resting solidlyon everything and nothing at all.“Suicide is just wrong!”That statement brought the girl back to reality.How ironic, a lecture on the evils of suicide. Againshe saw the edge of the roof as it rushed to greet her, theedge of her sanity.Faceless students commenced their attack on thesuicidal. The words hit home. Hit heart. The girl felt the worldclose in on her.Katherine’s right hand found itself up her left sleeve,clutching at her forearm, nails biting into flesh.“They’ll burn in hell forever!”The girl’s hand clamped down harder.Finally, the discussion arrived at its conclusion, and thestudents promptly poked fun at the topic, pretending to hangthemselves, slitting their wrists, and throwing around the word“cutter” as if they understood what they were saying.That. Was. It.“You don’t know that!” Katherine screamed shrilly,standing so suddenly that all eyes fell on her. “You don’t knowanything! The physical pain only lessens the emotional abusethey suffer from people like YOU!” Her voice rose dangerouslyand broke slightly, but she collected herself, and continued in acalmer tone, “To them, the pain is a way out. To finally peace.”Could they not see? Could they really be so blind?The room was silent for a few moments. Then all hell brokeBorsi / 45

loose. Rebukes were thrown her way so fast that it was a wonderthat Katherine wasn’t struck dead right that second. When atlast they were under control again, Katherine was back in herseat, fighting to hold back tears.Question and answer followed. Katherine couldhear insults being flung her way, but she didn’t care. It wascoming. She could feel it. The pastor was going to ask it. Hewas going to ask her.“Katherine, tell me, what is grace?”And there it was.But how could she lie? Grace didn’t exist.The clock chimed at that moment, as if on cue. Classwas over. The girl made a valiant attempt to reach the door withthe flow, but—“Katherine.”She already knew what the pastor was going to say; he repeatedit every week.“I’ve... got to go...” Katherine offered and ran, leavingthe concerned man in the dust.As the girl fled, she became aware of pain radiating fromher left forearm. It was bleeding. Five curved incisions.This wasn’t grace.46 / Blackwater Review

[[Distance]]Shana HeagwoodOne thousandSix hundredAnd seventy-three—The distance from his wall (boundaries) to her own.Truly no dark-year can measure—(∞)Is it true?Is it true?What they say,Can it be?“Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”Time + Distance = About to burst—[TRUTH]One millionSix hundredAnd seventy-nine—“I love you”“As well do I”Not repetitive nonsense in usual sequence over electrical wire.Increase in value—[INADEQUATE]One day they’ll meet?Feels so far away.How much closer now?Counting down the days on this timeless silver clock on thebedside table.Is it here, the day has come?An itching fear claws both,A ready scab of possible rejection.She waits outside his door, hopeful eyes first meet.Him + Her = An equation of infinite possibilities.[DESTINY]Heagwood / 47

Bad HabitsCaitlin PiersonShe’s tired. I think I can tell: she brushes her flappingsandals together as she swings her legs. She perches on theedge of that hospital beddy-thing and curves her body in a halfmoon.The position must’ve hurt with her extended belly.“Joel, Johnny, James, Jameson, Justin, no, Jameson.”Her lips barely move.“I don’t like it,” I said.“Why not?” She cocks her head as quick as a gun.“Shannon, you’re too picky.”“Shut up! You’re not the one having this.”“It takes two to get one, though.” I’m not going to let hershoot me down. “Frankly, I’d prefer Esperanza or Katherine—names that mean something.”“I thought you were over her.”Oh, God, Katherine. Perfume from Victoria Secret’sSecret Garden, thirty-dollar nails, a new pair of shoes, unfilteredmenthols, a muscle line as wide as your finger running downher calves (she let run my finger down them once), mouth thatcould give you a migraine and cure it as fast, that was Katherine.I guzzle as much coffee from a nearby thermos as I can.“I like the name Ramey, personally.” The nurse willkill me if I light up in a hospital, but I am who I am and startsearching in Shannon’s bag for some chew instead.“Ramey’s the sort of guy who’d squat down and pickup the books you dropped—just so he could get a better viewdown your tank top.”“You started it.” I glare over my coffee.“Do you really even want this?”I choke. “Shannon, I gave you a ring.”“Do I really even want you?” She tosses me a pack ofRedman and I roll my eyes.The doctor waltzes in. “Who’s ready for their check-up?”48 / Blackwater Review

NightdreamsNathan PembertonWhen you look outthe glossy-worn windowof your room on the second floorat the glazed city street,the street that takes your windedcar tothefoodstore and moneybank,the street whose head is full ofadolescent day dreams (Thoseshiny, impossible possibilitiesthat sit in store windowshungby price tags.Those paralyzing, see-through dreamsThat hollow out the children who bring themhome)The next time youlook out of your plaster wallposter laden, worn down carpet floorof a cage,slowlyturn aroundand look back in.Pemberton / 49

RothkoNathan PembertonRothko’s been reducedto stationeryand the pressure ofstore light glarejumping downupon the see-through coverof his new home.He’s surrounded by lunatics withopen wallets andfools with ultraviolet grinsin the mess ofa circus,a zoo,a store.How grating it is, Rothko,to be reducedandspread like pennies.50 / Blackwater Review

MementosRobert MoradaYou walk into the house. It’s kind of funny how you nowconsider it to be “the house” instead of home. The house is asmall two story set in a decent neighborhood. You’ve lived herewith her for the past two years.You want to be done before she gets home and anotherargument starts; you’ve had enough with arguing. The bedroomis a mess; it always is: clothes--yours and hers--are strewn allacross the floor, the bed you shared with her covered in moundsof them. The room, like the whole house, smells of vanilla.She was always crazy about vanilla, buying dozens of little airfresheners and candles.There’s not much you need to grab, just a few odds andends that can’t be neglected. You go to the bottom right dresserdrawer, where you keep all the important stuff. You rifle throughit, grabbing your checkbook, extra car keys, and all the other littlethings that your occupied mind tells you are important.You come to a pen and stop. All you can do is stare. Ashining aluminum push point you could find in any store. Thedamn thing doesn’t even work anymore; it ran out of ink over ayear ago. Well, in a way it does; you might not be able to use it toput down memories anymore, but it does bring them back. Thefirst gift she ever gave you. The two of you had been workingtogether for a few months, and you were terrified to talk toher. So you asked to borrow her pen--you can’t even rememberwhat for--just to have something to say to her. That night shegave you one, still fresh in the package.You shove the pen in your pocket and shut thedrawer. As you leave the room a glass mug catches youreye. It’s oversized and cheap, covered with words thathave long since faded. It came from the restaurant youwent to on your first date.You leave the room, passing the framed caricature thetwo of you had drawn at an amusement park last year; you‘reMorada / 51

Spiderman swinging her around above a city while she’s smilinga lopsided grin.Going down the stairs you pass the cracked, woodenpicture frame that she threw at you when she found out thatyou weren’t entirely honest when you told her that you wouldnever so much as look at another girl. For some reason the twoof you decided to hang it back up and try to make it work.In the living room you notice the fist sized indentationyou put in the wall when you found out you weren’t quite theonly one for her either.Through the kitchen and out the back door you go, noteven stopping to look at the small wooden table where youmust have spent dozens of dinners eating in silence.52 / Blackwater Review

phoneticsSarah Kanepol’ ka dot in’ tell ect’curly cues and dandelion tiarasbarbie dolls, baby carriages, butterfly wingsintohigh heels, high maintenance,swing set, belly-flop into the cash flow,tight ropes, balancing act under the big red top,gold teeth, top hats; other signs of ill fortune.succession: biological magnification--eat or be eatencounting calories, lipids, net weightloss of ignorance through these new-found concepts ofimmediate gratification; dependence; addictiondeadlines and the fear of flat linesinnocence into arrogance and reluctant divulgence.*First place, OWC Collegiate High School sophomore writing contest, 2006.Kane / 53

54 / Blackwater ReviewIt’s Been A Long Time ComingJocelyn G. DonahooGod had to scare him into taking his rightful place.It wasn’t easy for him to accept his calling,A praying manBishop TP JohnsonIt’s been a long time coming.A fighting Georgia boy from the streets of Cedartown;Shooting craps, clubbing, drinking and dancing with Betty Wright,Who would have thoughtHe would be in the church preaching & teachingTrying to get people to do right?Some call him flamboyant;A fancy dresserWith coordinating suit, shirt, and shoes,Maybe a Derby and cane to match,He loves cologne and his scent trails over into the pews.Like most of us, he has his sins:Diet Coke and Danny’s Fried Chicken,But God made some amends;TP’s Georgia Peach, children and grandchildrenAre never too far out of his reach.He has been misunderstood.Maybe, he has said some thingsThat were not so good.A sensitive man,He’s not too big to recant his erroneous words that sometimes sting.He has a song in his heartThat he desires to sing,A preacher and a teacherBishop TP JohnsonIt’s been a long time coming.

Calming Koiwatercolor / collageSharon D. James55

The Soul of New Orleansoil on canvasLuz Maria Mendoza56

Living Beyond Yourselfoil on canvasSue Tarkin57

Rubber Duckymixed mediaJayme Chatterton58

Self Portraitdigital imageMelissa Cromer59

The Original “Material Girl” – Marie AntoinetteporcelainLouise Fisher60

Ideas to Reality: Eiffel Towergelatin silver printMaria B. Morekis61

Holding Deathdigital imageNivaska Eastwold62

ReflectionsmultimediaSara Foraker63

Paddle Iacrylic on canvasDavid Hart64

Things RememberedcollageJune S. Jones65

Boats at Mykenosoil on canvasLynda W. Cast66

Extensionsraku stonewareRegina Coley67

Serenitycolor photographyOkeye Mitchell68

Reflections of Sundaydigital imageAmy Longhenry69

Mentormahogany & cypressLibby Guerry70

Merry-Go-Round MemoryCaitlin PiersonWhen my daddy’s handcould swallow my chubby fistfive times overand the multiplication tableswere heard being playedthroughout our house(Momma said “listento the tapesthey will help you remember”)Those cassetteswere like whirlpools spinninground and roundwhile the six-month-summerof the Panhandle endedand the wind spun like the tapesround and roundWe lived in the house-that-was-too-smallthe blue one on Third Streetwith noisy neighbors throwing too-loud parties, nightlymy daddy calling the police(Momma said “listento all that noisedon’t let the kids hear those words”)as the police sirensand the sound of smashing bottlesmingled with my dreams floating round and roundOne day the world was an ironset on the “steam” settingI left the tapes outside with neighborsInside my momma was bending over the stovestirring a giant pot on top round and roundPierson / 71

In the pot was the blackInk from an octopus I was sureor the finest Indigo Winestraight from the Orient—and a dressMy mother was stirring the brew with a large stickI watched the dress go round and roundas my thoughts followed my eyesround and roundI asked “what’s for dinner”(Momma said “listenwhy this of course”)and my laugh mixed with the steamflying away from the contents of the potI learned the truthlike I learned the multiplication tablesnot from hearing them said round and roundThough now I do hear the neighbors’ partiesmingling in my dreamsof fists and daddy’s sirensfive times overBecause today the world was an ironset on the “press” setting(momma said “listenI’m just dying a dresstonight we will eatspaghetti—your favorite”)I remember this allas my thoughts tease meas they chase a memory round and round*First Place, James N. LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 200672 / Blackwater Review

The Ninth TierThomas LeightonIt was a fantastic thing by all accountsA creation of trebled tiers, and trebledThe artist’s masterwork of arches and spiresAnd bold graceful curves; such beautyDrew longing eyes and hungry soulsMy own among them.Yet there was such about the architectureIn the nuances of dips and flaresAnd crenellations in each lofty, soaring ivory wallTo turn my mind to darker thoughts.The angles were all wrongTwisted spires and jagged, delicate stalagmitesThreaded with veins of white on white at the upper levelsClawing yet for stature unattained.The recesses held shadows, razor-edged and flawlessInverse of stark and pallid formations they embellished.Subtle patterns, cunning and complete.It was a wedding cake, of all thingsA great drafty monolith, aloof and impregnableAn ashen fortress spire of impossible perfection.Conversation flowed in sharp waves around the centerpieceRough, discordant in the ambience it somehow castA jumble of barely coherent description gaining my attention:ArtificeCardboard and wirePlaceboCamera fodderIt all makes sense as they gather for the photographerOrnaments, decorations before their false masterpiece.Leighton / 73

It towers above them, an unthinkably pretentious coronationLevels on layers straining toward the ceiling they can never reach.And on the ninth tierThe bride and groom stand watchingThe sight of them there, those vacant eyes,those chiseled plastic featuresTwinned mirrors of the pair belowSomehow makes my blood run cold.The man, the woman, their unborn childStrained, showy smilesStrands of hair escaping strict bondsClothing frayed almost unnoticeably, bearing jarring stains of use.So impossibly perfect, so fatally flawed.They stand motionless in thestrobing negative brilliance of flashbulbs.They revel in their climax, their crescendoTheir grim and haunting parody of joy.I can see the truth in her eyesIn his swaggering gaitThe way her lips turn down at the cornersThe way he laughs just a little too loudThe structure, forgotten in a distant cornerThree tiers, plain, unassumingThe real cake. The edible one.I leave before they can cut it.Before they unravel the counterfeit celebration they incited.My stomach churns with the segment of icingI scooped unobtrusivelyFrom that sad and neglected sideshow confection.They’ll never miss it.74 / Blackwater Review

A Lion’s TaleAbe TonerHuman flesh melts off the bone at 300 degrees Celsius.At least that was what Richard told us. It’s amazing how manytrivial facts he had in his head and the fact that he couldremember that one, even as the nurses tried to change hisdressings, was a miracle in itself. But that was Richard, anduntil the fire at the Farmer’s Market on 3rd street, that wasconsidered one of his biggest faults. His other was his inabilityto end a conversation. Richard had a bard’s lungs. He never gottired of telling his stories or regaling people with his limitlessJeopardy answers. He never got tired, but the people alwaysdid. The folks that had lived around Richard had known fromthe beginning he was different from most. They could neverjust say hello. Any time people made eye contact with him,they knew their plans for the next hour were ruined. Nowmost folks would start to hate a person like Richard for hisincessant yapping, but that was before they came to know howbig his heart was. Richard had once provided dinner to twentyhomeless people on Christmas because no one else could. Theyear the 2nd graders had needed a new aquarium for theirocean life project, Richard had eaten PB&J sandwiches for sixmonths just so he could donate the money. The people alwaysaccepted his gift, but they hated doing it because it meant thatRichard was going to be around. And when Richard was around,that meant he was going to talk. He always had the latest gossipor knew the inside scoop on any of The Daily Wind’s stories. Ina way I think Richard knew we hated his stories. Knew that wedidn’t want to hear them for the hundredth time, but that wasRichard. He always loved a good yarn, and sometimes that wasall he had. I think he knew all that as he ran into the fire. Wecould only stand watching the flames yearn for the sky. Somethink that Richard wanted to be a part of the story instead ofjust the teller. Others know it was his heart that couldn’t listento the little girl’s screams any more. His heart that knew theToner / 75

trucks wouldn’t arrive in time. It really was a great story, amyth for the ages. It would be a story only Richard could tellproperly. I think Richard knew this as well. You could see it inhis eye, and you could see the pain it brought him knowing thathe wouldn’t be there to tell it. It pained me as well because thatman’s heart gave that girl a chance to listen to all the storiesthe world has to tell. I like to think that Richard would’ve likedthat. Hell, it would remind him of a story.76 / Blackwater Review

The Jim Morrison LighterStephanie SnyderHer name was Donna Ramos, and she was perchedhigh on her throne of white, her posture erect, exuding anuntouchable and icy coolness about her even in the thickhumidity of the summer weather. Her sunglasses reflected animage of the aqua swimming pool from where I admired her.Her hair tumbled about her impeccably bronze shoulders like acinnamon waterfall. I sighed dreamily and waded closer to her.Donna looked down at me, lowered her sunglasses, and said ina strangely shrill and childlike voice:“Ugh! I hate you!”I abruptly snapped out of my daydream to find my kidsister Clara glaring at me. Clara is only nine, but she has thewithering, condescending glare down like a pro, as though shehas been perfecting it since she left the womb. I wasn’t at thelocal pool swimming around and lusting after Donna Ramos,the love of my life. No, instead I was sitting across from Clara ather favorite 24-hour diner, watching her scarf down a lunch ofblueberry waffles. Somehow she had duped me into promisingto take her to the diner for blueberry waffles for breakfast,lunch, and dinner.“What’s that?” I asked absently.“I hate you!” she repeated, and this time the voice matchedthe face. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that.” She pouted, floppingback in her seat in a huff and crossing her arms.“Do what?” I answered flatly, not really annoyed, but moredisappointed that she had snapped me out of my daydream.“Tip your ashes in my drink, that’s what! The ash trayis right there.” She pushed a small, flimsy aluminum saucertowards me.“Sorry. Here, take my drink.” I pushed my cherry sodatowards her.She sighed in exasperation. “Murph. The ice is all meltedand it’s watery and gross.”Snyder / 77

For as long as I can remember, Clara has been one of myfirst and foremost responsibilities in life. Both of our parentswork full time, and they rarely invest any time in Clara—whichis why the burden of taking care of her lands on my shoulderswhen summer rolls around and she’s out of school. Though Isee Clara for only three months out of the year, every time Icome home from college for the summer, it’s as though I pickup right where I left off with her.I struck a match and lit up another cigarette and took adrag. “It’s the damndest thing,” I said. “I think I lost my favoritelighter here last summer. You know—the nice silver fliptoplighter with Jim Morrison’s face on it.”“Who’s Jim Morrison?” Clara asked, even though shedidn’t look the least bit interested.“The lead singer of The Doors.”“What about him?”“I lost my fliptop lighter, the one with his face on it.”“What lighter?” Clara began pulling napkins out of thedispenser and shredding them.“The one Donna gave to me for my birthday back whenI was in high school.”“Who is Donna?”“My ex-girlfriend,” I said with a heavy sigh. The sad tale is thatDonna—the goddess of a lifeguard and love of my life—dumped melast summer to date some football player with an incredibly brightfuture. This summer, I was determined to win her back.“She gave you a lighter?”“Yes!” I let out an exasperated sigh. “The silver fliptoplighter with Jim Morrison’s face on it.”Clara paused, crinkled her nose and asked, “Who’sJim Morrison?”“He was the lead singer of The Doors and...Jesus Christ,you know what? Forget it. You obviously don’t know what I’mtalking about. You don’t even remember Donna, even thoughshe was always over at the house in high school!”“Will you take me to the park today?” Clara asked, foldingher legs underneath her and leaning over the table expectantly.78 / Blackwater Review

She snatched the cigarette out of my hand and extinguished itby dropping it in my cherry soda.“Now, what’d you go and do that for? The ash tray is righthere.” I pushed the small, flimsy aluminum saucer towards her.“Ha-ha, very funny. Now take me to the park.”“You’re really damn bossy, you know. I feel sorry forwhatever poor sucker ends up dating you in the future.”She laughed shrilly, completely tickled by the idea.“Honestly—I’m only nine! Jeez Louise!”“Just shut up and let’s go.” I left a tip on the table, andthen Clara and I headed outside. We climbed into my dilapidatedVolkswagen Rabbit. “Don’t you want to go to the pool? It’s hotout and a pool could be fun, y’know.”“No! I don’t like swimming. I hate the chlorine. Besides,we have other things to do.” I swear, I think Clara is the onlynine year-old who harbors a fervent hatred for chlorine.“This really sucks. I’m supposed to enjoy the summer andhere I am, driving you to the park. I feel like a nanny or something.You know, whatever the hell Mary Poppins was. Jesus Christ, I’mMary Poppins and you’re one of those spoiled British kids.”Clara giggled. “You’re Mary Poppins. Do you have amagical umbrella? Can we fly around town instead of drive?”“Oh, shut it.”“Hey, you said it!”We pulled up at the park. It was apparently under somesort of construction, and the only thing available to play on wasthe seesaw.“Oh, no,” Clara moaned, covering her face with her hands.“So, how does the pool sound?” I said.“No! I don’t care for swimming. I hate the chlorine. Itturns my hair green.” She clapped her hands together, pleased.“Ooh, I know! Let’s take a walk on the nature trail. It’s justbehind the park. Yes!”“What the hell kind of stupid idea is that? It’s at leastninety degrees out! And you want to go for a walk?”She was already out of the car and running towards thebackwoods where the nature trail was. I cursed under my breathSnyder/ 79

and reached over to my glove compartment to grab anotherpack of cigarettes and a book of matches. Then I took off afterClara, who had already disappeared into the woods.I ventured into the woods, and the sweltering heat mademe wish I were dead. The dirt trail stretched out before me,curving its path through the dense forest. Clara was nowhere insight. I looked around, wondering if we were playing a game ofhide-and-go-seek that I was unaware of. Then I felt a pineconebounce off of my head.“Hey!” I exclaimed. I looked up and sitting high up in a treetittering like a mischievous wood nymph was none other than mykid sister. “Get down from there before you break your damn neck.”“I like it up here! I can see the top of your head!”“Oh, that’s delightful. So am I going bald or what?”“Nope, you have a full head of hair! No worries!”I waved my hand at her, gesturing for her to come down.“Come on already.” I looked up at her again, the sun shiningdown in my eyes, stinging them. I couldn’t see her so well. Ishielded my eyes from the rays and saw a vague outline of herperched in the trees amongst the branches. “You’re pretty highup there,” I remarked.“I know. Are you impressed?”“No, you look like a monkey. Now get down here.”Clara sighed loudly. “You’re no fun.” She threw anotherpinecone at me and then began to make her way down the tree,lowering herself branch by branch. I was suddenly overwhelmedwith a terrifying feeling that she would fall from the tree. I wastrembling at the thought. With shaky hands, I fumbled with mycarton of cigarettes, opened it, and placed a cigarette betweenmy lips but didn’t light it. My hand sure as hell wouldn’t besteady enough to strike a match.Clara stopped halfway down the tree. “Are you okay?”she called to me. Suddenly I heard a tree branch snap and Claragasped, and I nearly swallowed my cigarette, which surely wouldnot have been a pleasant experience.“God damn! Are you trying to give me a heartattack?” I bellowed.80 / Blackwater Review

“It’s okay!” she assured me and leaned forward a littleto reach for a neighboring branch, a steadier and thicker one.As she leaned over, something tumbled out of the pocket ofher denim overalls and hit the dirt with a heavy plunk.“What was that?” I looked quizzically at the objectthat was semi-buried in the dirt.“Uh, it’s nothing! It’s nothing. I’m coming down.Murphy; help me down, I’m almost there,” Clara called.The object caught the sun and I realized that it was shinyand silver, much like my missing Jim Morrison silver fliptoplighter. I bent down, brushing the dirt away from it, and sureenough, there was Jim’s likeness, speckled with dirt.“What the hell?” I turned to her. She was now safely onthe ground, standing behind me, staring at me with an extremelyguilty look on her face. “Well, that does it. We’re going to thepool. You have no right to boss me around, you little thief. We’redoing what I want for once!” I headed for my car.“But you promised to take me to get blueberry wafflesfor dinner! You have to be good to your word!” Clara whined,sniffling and practically on the verge of tears.We drove to the pool in sullen silence, until Clarafinally spoke after what seemed like forever.“Don’t you want to know why I took it?” She wipedher runny nose with the back of her hand, and I cringed andalmost told her to at least use her sleeve, but I bit my tongue.This was serious. “Well?” she implored. “Don’t you?”I abruptly made a hard left turn at the traffic lightand Clara smashed up against the passenger side windowlike a bug. “Okay. So, why did you take it? Do you get a rushout of stealing shit that you know is important to me?”She was silent. “I don’t know,” she mumbled, avertingher glance to the window.“I really don’t understand you.” We pulled up at theswimming pool and I could see Donna from the parkinglot, just beyond a chain-link fence surrounding the pool.She was sitting on her high white chair, overlooking theclear and shimmering water. I felt a knot in my throat.Snyder/ 81

I started walking, not bothering to see if Clara wasfollowing me or not.“Wait,” she whimpered, and for once she sounded like anine year-old and not some bossy and wise-beyond-her-yearswhiz kid.I didn’t stop. Clara snagged my hand and I stopped,exasperated. “What?” I looked down at her face.Clara was looking back at me with pleading eyes. Theylooked like perfectly round and green flying saucers filled to thebrim with water. Every time she blinked, a tear spilled down afreckled cheek, and suddenly I felt like an enormous jerk. I wasa sensible, twenty-three year old law school student, and here Iwas, acting like a nine year-old.“What is it?” I said again, my voice less harsh.“I want to tell you why I took it. I can tell you now. I have thewords now.” She was back to sounding like her usual adult self.I stole a longing glance at the pool. We were so close thatI could hear Donna telling some chubby kid wearing dinosaurswimming trunks not to run alongside the pool.Clara took a deep breath and then exhaled. “Ever sinceDonna gave that lighter to you, it was all you ever talkedabout—just how wonderful the Jim Morrison lighter was andhow wonderful Donna was. Even after she dumped you!” Shewas looking down at her hands, her chin lowered and I couldn’tsee her face, just the top of her blonde head. “I don’t like thatsomething as stupid as a lighter and that stupid girl was moreimportant to you than I was.”To hear these words pour out of Clara’s mouth flooredme, especially since she seemed to suddenly remember Donnavery vividly and the whole verbal exchange in the diner earlierthat afternoon was just Clara feigning ignorance on the topic.“You know when you leave at the end of everysummer, I miss you,” she continued. “So I kept it ’cause it’slike a part of you. I know it doesn’t belong to me. But I justlike having it, okay?”I took all of this in, and after a moment, I turned andcontinued towards the pool.82 / Blackwater Review

“Murphy, oh no, please don’t be mad! Oh, I’m so sorry!”Clara was sniffling again, her voice wavering, the waterworksgoing at full force. She was desperately clutching on to my hand.I pushed open the entrance of the chain-link fence. Andthere was Donna Ramos, perched high on a throne of white, herposture erect, exuding an untouchable and icy coolness abouther, even in the thick humidity of the summer weather. Onlythis wasn’t a dream. This was real.“Wait here,” I said to Clara.“But—”“Just wait here,” I repeated firmly, and she chewed herquivering lower lip nervously and did as she was told, leaningagainst the fence.As I neared Donna, she looked down at me from herlifeguard’s chair and lowered her sunglasses. “Well! If it isn’tMurphy Callahan.” She said this with an air of completeconfidence. She knew very well the effect she had on me.I swallowed. “How are you these days, Donna? How’s...Buck?” I practically spat out his name. Yes, that was thejock’s name, and such a typical jock’s name at that, too. Buck.Quarterback Buck.“Oh. Well, we’re not together anymore.” Sheshrugged nonchalantly.I hadn’t expected that response. “Huh?”Donna rolled her eyes. “Didn’t you hear? Poor Buck torehis ACL in November. If you want to see him, he works at thegas station around the corner.” She smirked almost bitterly.“Can you believe that?”“Well, I’ll be damned.” I shrugged.She leaned forward, her face inches away from mine. “You lookgreat,” she said, touching my arm with her fingertips.“Donna…” I couldn’t crumble now. I couldn’t give in.The next thing I knew, Donna’s ice princess façade melted away,and was in turn replaced by complete desperation. “Oh, Murphy!I never should’ve dumped you! Buck was such a mistake.I was silly to leave you for him. I ran into your mom at the grocerystore the other day, and she told me just how wonderfullySnyder / 83

you were doing at college and how you’re interning at a law firmand I thought that was just so…awesome.”Suddenly I was struck with the vicious reality of exactlywhat Donna Ramos had done: she had thoughtlessly dumpedme for some meathead who was supposed to be drafted intothe NFL. Then she had thoughtlessly dumped the meatheadfor destroying his future in the NFL. And all of my dreams ofwanting to win her back were just that—completely and utterlydeluded dreams.“Yeah, the internship is going pretty great.” I lookedinto her beautiful blue eyes and I could see her hopefulness.And she looked back into my eyes, and I knew that she saw herfuture, as the trophy wife of a future attorney.“Why don’t you stay after hours? We could go swimmingtogether. We could talk about…us.” Donna grinned at mesuggestively and it was almost like old times.I laughed a little. “Thanks for the offer, Donna. But I don’t carefor swimming. I hate the chlorine.” I turned and looked over atClara, who was still standing by the fence, and I knew she hadheard me.The grin faded from Donna’s face and she stared at mecoldly. “Oh.” She sat back in her lifeguard’s chair and pushedher sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose. “Fine. Well, Ihonestly don’t know why you came here then.”I knew why I had come and I didn’t really feel like Ineeded to tell Donna. I didn’t utter another word and walkedback to Clara, who stood smiling by the fence.“Let’s go get some blueberry waffles,” I said to her.She wiped her teary eyes. “Oh, Murph!”I took Clara’s hand and placed the silver Jim Morrison fliptoplighter in it. “You can keep this.”“But I thought you wanted it back.” She blinked, confused.I smiled. “Nah, that’s okay. It doesn’t mean anything tome anymore.”84 / Blackwater Review

woman to ribDaniel Davisi take her into my houselike a baby bird i knew wouldn’t surviveher feathers had been pulled completelybeak twisted and mangledand wings that hung uselessly at her sidea bottle of water, a brown worn afghan laterand she’s ready for confessional, fatherforgive me, for i have sold the worlda clap of thunder in the distance reminds mei’m still in god’s courtroomand i am the stenographer only, no moreshe unfolds bitter eulogies of lovers pasttosses a funeral flower in the direction of eachpetty child crimes of jealousy over dollshopscotch games for the hearts of little boysand yes, she did take that stapler from the officethe rain beats like a boxer against the curtained windowsinvisible one-two punches, endless left hooksof hydroponic despondencymy bare chest is now soakedfrom the cut shoots of a weeping willowher mouth pulled down, gasps for airhead enveloped in the flesh of my ribseve cannot stand for the weight of the world, i thoughtashes to ashes, dust to dustoverexerted woman to ribDavis / 85

it’s round three, and i’m not sure who’s more wetthe earth, her eyes, or ianother water bottle, and she’s ready for the real reasonwhy the baby blue jay fell from her nesti cannot stand for the thought of death, she quietly administersinto my bated and burning earsgod relinquishes jurisdiction over to me with the passing of the storm(he never really felt comfortable with this subject, anyway)i tell her, it’s natural, to look down the chasm of mortality andthe death of communication between two people, she finishesshe pulls my emergency brake and i silently skid to a haltthank god these things have airbags and safety harnessessometimes, stars have no choice but to supernova, i admonishi stare at the wall ahead, the old pictures of her and methat i had unintentionally intentionally left hangingand allow her to fall asleep inside the marrowof the ribs where she was created86 / Blackwater Review

Hear Lies, OpheliaAmanda AndersonThe nicotine wallpaper petals trickled their watercolorsdown onto the bleached-thin cotton between her scalloped hips.Every morning brought an expansion of the coffee-colored stainson the ceiling tiles. The luck of rainstorms was captured by onequart,stainless-steel pans on the cracked linoleum. The phone’sringing on on on and her cheek rested against the cold floor.Something/anyone else, no one’s there--the machine clicks.It’s the voices, more than words, always needing something.There’s a raisin, once a grape, under the door of the fridge.Two, sun-honeyed smears of skin stuck to the floor. The grapewas ripe and she was proud, once. The Maytag heaved the sighshe was far too gone to make herself. Ringing on and on goneto the lullaby of appliances.Their love story, written out in lines of cocaine, would go on.Roses aren’t always red--because genetics don’t like to be uniform.If they were, they’d all be dead.Victim of the same virus, or similar life form.He was the warm smell of laundry. A language madein the folds of blankets to hold the words they couldn’t say toone another. Sparrows and geometric colors shaped behindher eyelids. There’s a point where nothing was possessed. Thememories, third-person singular, couldn’t be held down longenough to pass along. Too many lights out along the shorebetween tenses.“Maybe I don’t have a penchant for self-destruction.”She fell backwards into the sand and surfaced on the linoleum.His shape was far gone from the wrinkled, white surfaces. He’dcaught himself. Eyes glistening in the forty-watt bulbs, the ringringing against the papered walls, she drifted apart.Pink, shellacked nails crossed her palms. Minutes, hourslater, the phone still rang and the grape slowly dehydrated inthe warm current under the refrigerator. The cracks in the floorAnderson / 87

patterned their way into her skin. Her chest rose and fell tothe sound of passing cars. They were the revolutionaries, theromantics, but every bit of it was contrived. When she moved--she expected her joints to sound like the crane game. Relax andcontract those wild diseases of thought and inaction.The flowers faded toward the baseboards. The story ofher life printed on the walls in alternating patterns. Ringingringing in her head. She could feel the pulse of her skin againstthe luke-warm linoleum, the pulse of the phone from hertemples. Eyes closed she breathed in, above the dust and theold food smells, warm laundry.88 / Blackwater Review

WanderingsElizabeth TraxelFighting off waves of revulsion, Georgiana puts herthoughts of murder and mayhem on hold. She has bigger fishto fry, literally.Her son comes barreling towards her at breakneckspeed, holding a dead fish in one hand, pole in the other. Shehates fishing, she’s forced to admit to herself, as her twinklingblond son stares at her. She wonders whom he looks like, as heresembles neither of his parents.She smiles falsely at the dead fish and throws it intothe sink and runs water on it. “Go put your pole up and thentake a shower. You smell worse than the dead fish,” Georgianatells her son.Glaring at her husband as he walks through the door,she asks in all seriousness, “Could you have caught a moredisgusting fish?”“Probably” is his answer. He tries a charming grinfrom behind the beginnings of a beard. She smiles at him,same as she did the fish and the son. A smile that has nomeaning or feeling.She’s really not quite sure that the kid is hers. There’sjust no attachment, she thinks to herself as she turns towardthe sink. Maybe he’s just a hallucination, or a changeling.Anything but hers.“I wish I could batter them up, debone them, and fry them.But most of all, I want them to die,” she sings in earnest. Herhusband and son think it’s a song she made up about hating fish.Preparing the fish for dinner, she thinks about whather job is. To them, cook, mother, general care giver. PSSSH!There’s more to her than a maid.She reaches into the cabinet and pulls down the spicefor the fish and wishes life was more like her mayhem book. Theability to pour concentrated mercury onto the fish, blame theirdeaths on polluted lake water and live forever on the settlementTraxel / 89

money from suing the owner of the lake would make her lifeideal. She pauses briefly to relish the idea, and then relinquishesit. If only life could be that good, that nicely put.She calls the boys down to dinner. She long ago stoppedthinking of her husband as a man. He was just a big needy boy.She sighs and heads back towards her book in the living room.“Aren’t you going to eat with us?” he asks as she leaves.She shakes her head and heads back towards the door. Wishingsilently that her mind wanderings could be her reality.90 / Blackwater Review

The Philosophy of the Taxi DriverZach Gershkoff“You know what I can’t stand?” exclaimed ThaddeusHopkins as he walked out of the theater. In truth, there weremany things Thaddeus Hopkins couldn’t stand, so whenever hewanted to talk about something he couldn’t stand, no one wasever really sure which one he was talking about until he said it.“Spiders?” ventured his friend Henry Moore. Hopkinshad a documented fear of spiders although he would neveradmit it. Moore knew that Hopkins would never admit it andtherefore knew that Hopkins wasn’t talking about spiders, sothat guess was Moore’s own special way of saying he didn’tparticularly care what Hopkins couldn’t stand. Both Hopkinsand Moore had middle names, but no one used them, whichmeant either they weren’t aristocratic enough to go by threenames, or too popular for it. Had someone confronted themabout it, they would have claimed the latter.Hopkins kept on talking, ignoring his friend’s futileguess. “I can’t stand how playwrights use plays to glorify plays!Consider that one song, ‘There’s no Business like Showbusiness.’There are plenty of businesses like showbusiness! Salesmanship,for example. Or robbery, judging from the ticket prices.”Hopkins groaned and clutched his wallet, causing groups ofpeople leaving the theater to shy away from him.“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” muttered Moore. Hopkins’tendency to hate all sorts of things he saw was somethingMoore couldn’t understand. Moore preferred to hate the sameold things repeatedly. He attempted to hail a taxi, but theyweren’t really close enough to the road for that.“Why do they feel they need to praise their own business,anyway?” Hopkins ranted on. “When my father purchasesbillboards to advertise his law firm, he never feels the need totell anyone that lawyering is great.”Moore gave in and answered him. “Maybe they need toconvince themselves that they like it. If you say or do somethingGershkoff / 91

enough, you’ll start to agree with it. A psychologist said thatonce.” Pretending to be educated was a favorite pastime ofMoore, but Hopkins never had time for it. He hailed a taxiagain, this time successfully. Moore, who was in a greater rushto leave, climbed in the back door and Hopkins followed him.The taxi cab was dimly lit and smelled of cigarette smoke,but the thing that set it apart from the theater was the personin front. Instead of a tuxedoed maestro conducting an orchestrain a pit, there sat a tired driver whose coat looked like it wasbleached in all the wrong places. Blues was playing on the radio.Moore, instead of thinking of how the music complements thescene like a normal theatergoer would, took the psychologicalapproach again. “But why, then, would someone sing the blues?It will make you think you’re sad even if you’re not. And no onewants to be sad.”Hopkins was too busy haggling with the taxi driver toanswer, but the driver turned around and smirked at Moore.“There are worse things than being sad, pal.” This upset Hopkinsgreatly, who didn’t like being interrupted at all.“Oh really?” said Moore, intrigued. “Like what?”“Like getting used to it.”That gave Moore something to think about on theride back as Hopkins fumed about how he can’t stand beinginterrupted. When they reached their destination, the taxidriver overcharged them.92 / Blackwater Review

Façade UncoveredShana HeagwoodPeople only see through the rose-shaded glasses I provide--Limited to the dove in me:The princess costume,Bubble-gum pink,Twittering humming bird wings,Bubbly and buzzing,White-toothed smile,Compassion and love,Hot-rod red fireball candies,An explosion of flavor to the taste buds.The things they see aren’t every color of the rainbow;The thoughts they think aren’t all there is to comprehend;The sounds they hear aren’t all the sounds there are;The things they smell, taste, touch, and feel aren’t all there is.All the darker features visible only to him:Black hole and galaxy of stars,Depth and mystery,Witch’s brew,Confusion and variety,Moonlight and panther,Path-finder without its own,Freshly brewed cappuccino,Liked by some, detested by others.Resolve:He reveals the soul behind the New Orleans mask,He is the link to the rusty chain with no ball,He is the discovered, yet awaited--The one who may one day give all the golden key;Cleanse the window to my spirit--So all may see--See every part of me...Heagwood / 93

Things Will Always ChangeAbe TonerThe devil’s desires leadA lifetime of regretTwain twisting bodiesStuck together with sweatNever again knowingThe sweetness of our friendEyes that sparkled nowDim with reflectionOf moonlight covered fleshEars that perked to hear your voiceCan only remember passionScreaming our namesTouching thrums my nervesJolting with pain mySerpent whispers secretsSeducing my reason neverTo see your redemptionThis knowledge is powerDestroying my sensesAn original sin complicatesTwo souls in the wind94 / Blackwater Review

Perfect StrangersChara Nelson“He’s perfect,” Jane said.“Who is?” Macy asked, pouring another cup of coffeeinto the blue mug. Jane didn’t answer. Jane sat at their kitchentable staring out the fogged window.Their nights together had become boring and quiet,unlike their evenings in the years past. Macy remembered atime when Jane would keep her up for hours laughing overtheir mistakes, and talking about their love for each other.But not this night, or any night in the past two months. Itwas common for them to spend every night sitting across theround kitchen table in their long, tan trailer home, facing eachother over coffee or pastries. Their kitchen table was coveredby Macy’s red tablecloth she had taken with her when sheleft her parents’ home. Every time Macy spilled somethingon the red cloth, she could hear her mother’s voice screamingjust as her mother had done when Macy was twenty-one andannounced her plans to live with Jane. Jane was thirty-threeat that time, and Macy’s parents, being church people, didn’tlike the relationship between Jane and Macy. Those werehard years for them. They gave up everything to be together,including friends, family, even Macy’s pet raccoon, Squally.Macy hadn’t heard from her parents since the day she movedin with Jane.“It’s getting late; you should hit the sheets,” Macysaid, standing up. She tugged on Jane’s arm, gesturingtowards the bedroom.“No, I’ll come later. I can’t sleep...not tonight.” Hermotions were cold and listless, causing a kink in Macy’s stomach.Ever since Jane had begun her strange actions, Macy had calledmany different doctors for an answer, but Jane always refusedexamination. Doctors all said that unless she was in pain, theyhad no right to force an examination on her.“Please don’t stay up too late, Jane?” Macy asked, loweringher hands from the sleeve of Jane’s wrinkled, yellow blouse.“It has to be perfect,” Jane said, without moving her eyesfrom the window. Macy turned her head so to hide a tear fromJane, although she knew Jane wouldn’t look to see anyway.Nelson / 95

In bed, Macy cried.“What have I done?” She questioned herself in thedarkness. She lay with only a pink, silk night-shirt on. Janehad bought it for Macy two months ago for her twenty-ninthbirthday. Macy remembered that evening very well. It was thatnight that everything changed between them. Jane was late. Shedidn’t wrap the silk negligee. She walked in unnoticed, handingit to Macy and turned to the table of alcoholic beverages. Janesat in the same chair all evening. She sat silent and drunk, andstared into nothing. Jane was always the one to be loud andkeep the party stirring, making every party the biggest eventof the year. She would wrap Macy’s gifts beautifully, and thegifts were always expensive. Like the time Jane bought Macy apair of diamond-drop earrings from Dillard’s, or the time Janebought her a Fossil watch, the finest Fossil made. Tonight Macywould do anything to know what happened that night. Macy’sthin blonde hair, platinum from boxed hair dye and showingdark roots from being unkempt, dangled around her thin,freckled shoulders. Her tears soaked the collar bones framingher neck. She never wore socks; Jane didn’t like socks in bed.“We have become perfect strangers,” she whispered, asif to wake up another soul in the room. But she knew therewere no other souls, just herself. She closed her moist, browneyes and prayed she’d sleep all night.The next morning when Macy awoke, Jane was gone.Macy sank into the chair Jane had been sitting in at the time oftheir departure the night before. Macy found herself staring intothe window Jane had so unreservedly ignored her through.“Show me, Window, what does she see all the time?” Shesaid, clenching her right fist around the blue coffee mug fromthe night before, still containing the coffee she had pouredbefore she decided she couldn’t take the quiet any longer. Withone swift motion, Macy threw the half filled coffee mug andwatched as it busted through the dew covered sheet of glass.She relaxed with the shatter, and found the act of violence tobe therapeutic. The room was quiet, and now with the brokenwindow, all the outside noises were clearer inside. Like thesound of their overweight Yankees fan neighbor, mowing thelawn three doors down. Macy sat staring at what she’d done,her right arm still extended from the throw. She looked downto see that a piece of the shattered windowpane had struckthe top of her hand. Only a small cut, but running with thin96 / Blackwater Review

lood. Macy brought the wound to her mouth, tasting the rubyscrape. Its salted flavor reminded her of when she was little andhad put a penny in her mouth.“Ha, I try to hurt you, but I end up bleeding,” she said,smirking, then spitting out the blood her tongue had absorbed.Hours later, Macy had packed the red tablecloth, aswell as all of her belongings, and made her resolution to leaveJane. Macy heard a sound of someone coughing, and exited thebedroom to see Jane at the kitchen table. Jane was smoking acigarette. Jane and Macy hadn’t smoked in years. They promisedeach other to quit.“Jane,” she asked, stepping out from the bedroom.“Where were you?”Jane remained silent, still motionless.“Jane? I asked you a question.”“What did you do?” Jane asked, not moving her eyesfrom the center of the non-existent window.“Stop, Answer my question first.”“Answer mine.”“Why should I answer your question when I’m the onebeing lied to?”“Where’s the tablecloth?” Jane asked, “And where ismy window?”“It was my tablecloth. As for the window, I broke it.”“Why did you do that?”“Because, I could.”“You shouldn’t have. Now the room will be cold at night.You know I don’t keep warm very well.”Jane’s short, black hair looked rumpled, her yellowblouse still wrinkled. Her weathered skin made her blue eyeslook small and robbed from the youthful years when Macyhad met her.“Why are you doing this? What happened that nighttwo months ago? I want to know.”“He’s perfect,” Jane said, “We were strangers on thestreet, but now, he’s perfect. He’s everything to me.”“I don’t understand,” Macy said, her voice quiveringas if to cry, and her hands held helplessly to her side. Herlong, slender, pale legs trembled beneath the lace that linedthe bottom of her silk night-shirt. Jane was masculinecompared to Macy. She wore Wrangler jeans and tuckedblouses. She wore no jewelry other than a gold ring on herright hand. Macy wore a ring on her right hand as well, aNelson / 97

silver one. Looking down at her own ring, Macy tugged itoff. She still remembered their one year anniversary sevenyears ago. She remembered the speech Jane gave under thepavilion as she presented Macy with the ring in front of alltheir friends gathered at a barbeque at their local park. Janewore the gold one and Macy wore the silver one, two togetherbound as one. Macy tossed the silver ring onto the table infront of Jane. With its landing it make a resounding ping,bouncing for a few inches before resting beside Jane’sright hand. Jane didn’t remove her composure from themesmerizing trance she had found herself delighted inthroughout the past two months.“Who is he? Why are you away so many nights?” Macyquestioned belligerently. She bent on her knees and put herleft arm on the back of Jane’s chair. She rested her righthand on the table. Jane continued to look away, avoidingMacy’s face.“Lock the door,” Jane said, “on your way out.” Macypaused in shock, and then rose to her feet in a weak rhythm.“Why?” Macy asked, narrowly breathing. “Why now?What for?”“He’s perfect,” Jane repeated. “We were strangers on thestreet, but now lovers when we sleep. He is a perfect stranger.”98 / Blackwater Review

The Fall of SoulJoseph PaulEven though I had not heard much of anything besidesthe ringing in my ears for almost two days now, I was awareof the explosions that destroyed the bridges that spannedthe Han River. My commander, who has not moved since thecommand building was hit by artillery, is being carted southon a wheelbarrow. The private pushing the cart has not spokenmuch since the war started, and if he even faltered a bit whenthe bridges were destroyed, I would be surprised. Brown is stoicin his duty, as am I, but the many Koreans around us have beenadded another misery to the past two days.The few men, and even fewer of them are of fightingage, to make it out of Seoul are defeated, and even the tasks ofseeing the many civilians to safety seem as hopeless as drivingback the juggernaut that had swept aside all resistance in itsrelentless drive south. Many look to us in desperation, but littlehelp can come from three American soldiers when an entire taskforce and four Republic of Korea divisions had failed to preventthe Inmun Gun from breaking out of the western corridor andmaking it to Uijonbu and then Seoul. My uniform, covered inblood and debris, testifies that I have not been to sleep sincethe war began forty-eight hours ago and places me right in themiddle of this rout.We know that Seoul has officially fallen when thescreams can be heard from across the river. At the peak of theridge where the road turns from the river and takes a southerlycourse, the three of us pause to look once more upon the capital.Joined by the stragglers of the fleeing populous, we witness thedawn. Nothing spectacular about it. The mist comes as alwaysto settle around the river banks and wedge itself firmly inthe streets and boulevards. The quiet of the city is broken byweeping on our hilltop and the sounds of continued struggle.The fires that raged in the night burn still, but at least theyburn with less intensity. Seoul is gone to us as the final soundsPaul / 99

of resistance die out and the North Koreans begin to reclaimthe city of their brothers.Our time to leave arises when mortars begin to hit thenear bank. Many of the civilians have already left our hill, andBrown tugs gently on my sleeve before he begins pushing thecaptain’s body south. I turn my back on Seoul and begin walkingthe long march toward Busan, the silence broken only by theringing in my ears.100 / Blackwater Review

RooftopsGordon WestKell pitched a t-shirt onto the arm of the sofa (“1996SOFT ROCK 97.3 ARBOR DAY CHALLENGE!” it advertised),a youth size with the feel of skin. “It’s there if you want it,” heoffered, circling out of view.I kicked the garment from its perch and sat up, feelingcomplacent and vaguely caterpillar-like. The Manx was atmy feet again, needling me with a concentrated squint ofthe eyes.“I don’t think I will ever win Haiku’s affection.”“You’ve got a funny way of trying. Putting a cigaretteout on her back.”“I don’t even like the things. Why is it always staring at me?”“Goddamnit, we’re not going to talk about thecat today.”Kell was making a slow pace along the windowed wallof his apartment, shadowed by a self-refraction in the glass. Hewas so gorgeous, cast against the skyline.I sat and let him walk for a while. He was looking for hisgirl, I knew. She’d be walking around this time, as well.“Do you ever get sick of that view?”He turned towards me and let his knees buckle below,sinking himself into the carpet.“Not yet,” he responded simply, in a soft breath.“It’s a gorgeous view.” An assenting grin. “I mean, wheredo you go from there?”He looked back past his shoulder to give the view inquestion another scan. A big, beautiful police barricade linedoff the road at either end of our block, bringing a still hush overthe street.Minutes afterward, he had crawled to my side andkissed me on the neck, rubbing the stubble on my chin thewrong way as he turned his head up to look into my eyes. Hepulled me to my feet.West / 101

We came to the rooftops, then, and both leaned over thehandrailing. The air up high was a crisp, lovely thing. It camerushing up the sides of the building in sweeps and breezes at atime, cutting into our downward gazes with all the cool vigor ofthe whipping wind.“She’s not down there.”“Haven’t seen her all morning.”He didn’t know the name of his girl. Mostly he knew herstrut, the way she commanded the streetside with that sure,kicking step.“What do you see in her?”He leveled his eye-sight to the Benihana billboard a fewblocks down.“The street.” He turned to me. “Not because of what shedoes, if that’s what you’re thinking. I see something grounded .. . something chained.”“And what do you see in me?”Somewhere in the cityscape backdrop, a siren waskeening morning-warnings, harmonized in bizarre fashion bya busker’s saxophone.“The rooftops. Always the rooftops.”102 / Blackwater Review

Better RegretNicole MerendaTracy came to the record store to catch him before heclocked out for the day, and they decided to take a walk beforehe took her home. He wasn’t really in the mood, but with thatgrin on her face, it was impossible for Will to say no. The weatherwas finally getting warm, and William decided he could use alittle spring air.They chattered about their day as they walked, Willlistening to Tracy’s ramblings about her roommates and a greenscarf she’d found on sale. He told her about some overstock heneeded to ship back and a new soundtrack CD that everyoneseemed to want but hadn’t arrived. Tracy listened as well as shespoke, so even though he wasn’t a talkative kind of guy, it waseasy to spill to her.Another thing he had learned about her was that shewas spontaneous, much more so than himself. For someoneas set in his ways as Will, it was a little unnerving at times.He was never sure whether he should be frightened ordelighted when she said or did something that no one wasexpecting. As they passed the gate to the park, the lawnsprinklers popped up and began spraying wide arcs of wateracross the new grass. They watched as others scurried offthe green to spots out of the its reach. Will noticed that lookin Tracy’s eyes.“Gray,” he started, shaking his head. “Oh, no. No, whatif . . . .” She had already taken his hand and pulled him towardsthe water. He tried to resist, but too late.As if mocking him, she stopped in the middle of thesprinklers after they were soaked. “You called, my dear sir?”She batted her eyes through the drops on her lashes. He movedher bangs out of the way, and looked down at her solemnly.“What if you catch cold?”She stuck out her tongue.“Your doctor--and the girls--will have my head,” he said.Merenda / 103

“Psh, as if I could resist this,” she said, and let go of hishand to hold her arms out, spinning around and around andaround. “We have a spring shower all to ourselves!” He wantedto smile, too, but couldn’t. It was the old worry, the old Will.“Anyway, aren’t you sick of the same old walks?Something different is good for you,” she said, as if her job wasto watch out for him. “Besides, if I get sick, oh well; it’s better toregret something you did than something you didn’t, right?”“You’re quoting the Peppers again,” he said, eyeing her.“All the more reason to realize how right I am,” she said.And she won--again. Sometimes he couldn’t help himself.Will smiled and wrapped his lanky arms around her, leaning overto bury his face close to her neck. He couldn’t have cared lessabout the old couple staring at them from the dry sidewalk.“Ah, a smooshy, wet-William hug,” Tracy muffled intohis sopping shirt, before they both broke into a laugh.William rolled over on his side, the dream already fading,his eyes blurring as they opened and adjusted to the dark. Onhis nightstand, the bright red, mocking numbers of the digitalclock read 3:11 AM. He buried his face in his pillow. “Oh, God.”No sleep that night either, damn it.It had been the same for the last few months. Sleeplessnights, then groggy mornings spent staring at the scuffedcounter beyond the cash register of the record shop. At quittingtime, he walked home alone, past the park and coffee shop - henever stopped at either anymore.It had been more than a year ago. He had been about toclock out for the day. He’d stuffed his keys and wallet in his pockets,then turned his head in the direction of a shouting co-worker.“Hey, Will! Sure ya don’t wanna go to the party?” Theyounger man switched his jacket from his left to his right arm,dodging a bin behind the counter. His shift was over, too. “Theone down at Jeff’s?”Grinning a little, William Neroli shook his head.“Listen man, if I wanted lung cancer, I’d be a smoker,” he104 / Blackwater Review

hooked his apron onto a peg behind them as he spoke. “I don’tneed to go someplace where the second hand smoke is so badI’ll get sick just breathing.”“Ha, ha, hey, don’t be so judgmental, man. Why youalways got to act so old? You need to come out sometime.”“Yeah, yeah, I might act old, but between the two of us,who’s the manager?”“Shut up!” The boy finished clocking out, and they bothlaughed. “Anyway, later.”“Later.” William couldn’t help thinking the boy wasright. He did act too old. It’s not like 23 is rocking-chairs-onthe-porchage. But what’s the problem with it? Maybe thingswere monotonous, the same men in business suits, the samejogging mothers pushing strollers past the store every morning;he worked hard, then went home, cooked himself dinner, andwatched the same shows before going to bed. Every so oftenhis mother would call and demand a report, but it was still thesame. William was independent and made enough to live off,but life was beginning to feel like a drag. It was like he kneweverything that would happen every day. But there was onesmall change he’d begun to notice.Virgin was the only real music store in a town, so theyhad a lot of regular customers. It was pretty noticeable whenpeople stopped coming, and she hadn’t been in, even to browse,in months.As he’d stood next to the register, ready to head homefor another night of Seinfeld and Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?,he’d taken a quick look toward the door. And there, behind thewide glass windows, a couple of customers he’d been waitingto see. One stopped at the door, her thin hand on the handle,pulling just enough to crack it. The girl, who looked about 20or so, with mousey brown hair and clear blue eyes, shoppedat Virgin frequently. Will had gotten to know her taste--alternative, mostly. Red Hot Chili Peppers must have been herfavorite band. She wore a hoodie with their logo plastered onthe front and bought everything they released. Once or twice,he’d initiated small talk with her.Merenda / 105

Now she was laughing; evidently the other girl (thefriend with purple-dyed hair, another reason they were easy toremember) had made her laugh.“Okay, be there soon,” she said, handing a grocery bagover to the girl. Another muffled comment from Purple-HairedGirl, and she laughed again. “Okay, go, go! See you in a few.”She waved off the girl and finally entered the shop.Noticing Will, she smiled in his direction before heading to thenew release shelf, quite near where he was standing.“Hello!”“Um- hi!” Adjusting his glasses, William returned thesmile. “How are ya?”“I’m doing pretty good, thanks. Much better than I havebeen.” The girl went about flipping through the new albums.“Oh yeah? It’s just, you know, you haven’t been herefor a while and some of us started getting worried. Everythingbeen all right?”“Wow,” the girl laughed. “Come to think of it, I do visitpretty often, huh? Yeah, I’m okay. Just got a little sick anddoctors went crazy with the appointments and made me take iteasy for a while.”“Ah.” Crazy with appointments for being a little sick?William pondered it a moment more before shaking hishead. “You’re here almost as much as me, except I get paidto be here.”This seemed to amuse her. “Lucky you,” she said,“I wouldn’t mind getting paid to work in a music store.”“I’m surprised you don’t receive a check from us.”“Yeah, well,” she said, “That’d be cool, but it’s okay. Idon’t mind as long as I can get my music.”As they chatted, the evening manager, an older guy,who always wore his shining silver name tag that read DAVID,appeared from the doorway that led to the back, stopping behindthe register. He smiled at the girl, and then approached Will.“Hey, are you staying for the afternoon shift or what?”“Oh yeah, stupid me.” Will chuckled and finishedclocking out. He scooted from behind the counter and began106 / Blackwater Review

owsing the alternative albums, which happened to be nearthe new release end-cap. “So, um, where you off to after this?”“Gotta head home; tonight is movie night.”“Really? I’m heading home, too. Imagine that, sameplace.” William hoped his charm was working as he smiled acheeky smile. “Too bad I don’t see you there,” he said, taking asmuch risk as he could muster. “I might not work as much.”The girl laughed and gave him a smile right out of atoothpaste ad.“Nice. Very charming, Mister,” she paused, blinking. “Idon’t even know your name.”Emboldened now, almost giddy that she’d used the word“charming,” he said, “And to think we’ve been seeing each otherall this time.” She smiled at the lame joke, so William continued,“My name is William, um, Will, uh, Neroli, um, I mean Will.People call me Will.” He held out a hand.“Tracy Gray,” she said, and the two of them shook hands.It happened just like that. Tracy Gray (Or Try, as some ofher friends called her-- William eventually called her Gray, sortof his own pet name) ended up inviting him home for movienight. It turned out that she lived in the old firehouse downthe street, which she and a couple of roommates had convertedinto a pretty nice little place. One of them was a DJ for a localradio station: Caitlin Dagmar, she had her own nightly showon 99.9. She and Will had met at an event 99.9 and Virginhad sponsored together. Caitlin and Angela Anderson, a selfproclaimed“professional shower singer,” also lived there.The movie for Monday Night Movie Night at the girls’house had been The Truman Show, a movie both Will and Tracyloved, but they spent the evening talking about music in thekitchen while the roommates watched the video.Before he knew it, he was over every Movie night. Thenit was more than twice a week for dinner. Then he startedvisiting Tracy at the coffee shop where she worked, all thewhile arranging more promos with Caitlin. He became friendswith all of them, even her purple-haired best friend, Angela,Merenda / 107

ut he especially liked the girl with the mousey brown hairand blue eyes.“I moved out when I was 17,” Tracy told him randomlyone day, “because my family was so dull. I really wanted tomove in with Cait when she got her own place. We were all a lotyounger then, you know.”The way she told him things was always casual.Sometimes she’d just spill something like that when they werewalking or just lounging on her bed, but it was always so open.It was the same way she told him about her leukemia. She waslying on her bed, smiling, staring into his face, and said, “I’msick, Will” fast, like pulling off a Band-Aid.William later realized that, in a way, Tracy knew whatshe was doing. At the time, the news hit too fast for pain to setin. It was more like shock. All he could think was that beforethose words everything had been normal.Normal, with movie night and afternoon walks in thepark. Normal, because Tracy still got excited when she hearda Peppers song on the radio and happy when William said shelooked pretty with her hair pulled back. Normal, even withchemotherapy and way-too-many pills she had to take. Theywent on living, talking about the future like every normalcouple in love. She wanted to elope and be married by an Elvisimpersonator. William agreed, and they’d sent for brochuresabout Las Vegas.Then normal turned into shortness of breath; it turnedinto a tired, thin girl, waking up with dried blood on her tongueand a sick stomach. She no longer cared about songs on theradio. She spent most of her time sleeping or staring at herselfin a mirror, watching her hair fall out. The happy, tearful lookon her face when he shaved his head, so he would look like her,was the first he saw her smile in weeks.It was not quick. It took over a year. She had some gooddays, some rallies when they let themselves plan a future thatneither believed in. Even on bad days, she put on a show forhim. Only once did she admit it hurt, that she was scared. Willcried more than she did—or at least it seemed that way.108 / Blackwater Review

The Sunday before Tracy died, William didn’t work andspent the entire day at the firehouse with her. She hadn’t feltlike going out, even though he’d rented a wheelchair monthsago when she’d become too fatigued to walk the park on herown. She’d stick a big sun bonnet on her fuzzy scalp, put ablanket over her lap, and pretend, she said, to be an invalidon an ocean cruise, and Will, he was the cabin boy assignedto push her chair near the rail where the salt air would be sureto restore her. But that Sunday, she was too tired, and insteadspent most of the day sleeping. He considered going back tohis place to do some laundry, but decided to hang around eventhough it was painful to watch her sleep, her eyes too puffy, herbody too thin, and bruises on both arms where medicine portshad collapsed.She woke up about four that afternoon and askedWill to help her into the living room. The short trip seemedto wear her out. Will got her medicine and a glass of waterwhile she stared into the blank TV screen as if it wereplaying her favorite film. When he sat down beside her,she leaned close, smiled, then lay her head in his lap. Hereyes were closed, but Will knew she was still awake. “Gray,do you,” he paused, sweeping a hand over the fuzz thathad once been bangs. “Do you remember what we talkedabout? That trip to Vegas?”She opened her eyes right away, but took a moment torespond. When she did, she smiled. “Of course.”“Good, well.” He hadn’t planned any of it, but he wantedto say something, anything. “Um, maybe we could still try togo there, you know, get a room, somewhere you could rest, butstill, you know. Wouldn’t that be good, huh? Wouldn’t youwant to do that?”“Ah, yeah,” she said, “sure—Vegas—wooo.” The rightwords, but so soft he could barely hear them. “Next weekend,then,” she said. “Huh? Next weekend?”“I’ll go buy you a dress, a big white dress,” Will said,sucked in to his own fantasy. “A wedding dress, you know. We’llfind a guy, an Elvis guy.”Merenda / 109

“Oh,” she laughed a little. “I have one already. I just didn’twanna tell you. It’s really pretty. It’s simple, though, a sundress.”“I don’t care if it’s a bathrobe,” he said, smiling for thefirst time that day, maybe for the first time in a lot of days, reallysmiling. It had been a good idea, an idea that would buy moretime, another rally. “You’ll be beautiful,” he said, but wishedthe words back, thinking she’d take them wrong, like he hadnoticed she wasn’t beautiful anymore.“I hope so,” she said. “When I bought it, I thought of you.”“I’ll even wear a tie,” Will said, making a motion at histhroat like he was tightening the knot.“Can’t wait,” she said.Tracy died that Wednesday night, or early Thursdaymorning. The exact time didn’t matter. Either way, shewasn’t going to wear the dress for William, or for a preacherdressed like Elvis, or even for herself. Instead, Will was askedto pack up the things in Tracy’s dresser; her roommatesseemed unable or unwilling to even go in the sick room, theroom in which she’d been found. He probably shouldn’t havebeen surprised to find it, but it still seemed to mock him,mock them, the whole damn thing: the white pinhead-lacesundress. He didn’t finish packing; he left and didn’t thinkhe’d ever look back.It took a while, some feeling sorry for himself, some sadwalks through the park, but one day he just found himself atthe firehouse again.He knocked, then gave it a few minutes. Unless Angelahad moved, he knew the door was unlocked. He thoughtabout going in, looking around, looking for, he didn’t know,for something. Before he could decide, Angela, the remainingroommate, made it to the door. Caitlin had moved out, a job inMobile, more money, less memories, not long after Tracy died.Angela, her hair a simple dirty blonde now, peered throughthe partially open door, then opened it. They had been the twooldest of the once tight-knit group, but now they looked it, atleast she did.110 / Blackwater Review

“Hey, you,” she said, her gaze drifting beyond him,seemingly looking at something over his left shouldersomewhere. “Driving around alone?”“Yeah, um, my lunch break,” he said. He scratched theback of his head. “I just . . . ended up here.”“Understandable. I hardly leave.” She moved out of hisway. “Drinks, maybe?” she asked, moving aside to let him in.Seeing the place again was like a punch in the stomach.He scanned the room like he might see something there thatmade everything make sense. “How ya been?” he managed.“Nice and drunk,” Angela said, walking across the living roomand closing the door to what had been Tracy’s bedroom. “You?”Eyeing the closed door, “Doing the best I can,” he said.“That’s the best way,” She kept walking until they werein the kitchen. She rummaged for glasses in the dishwasher.“Cait took off a few months ago,” she said. “She might comeback here, though. She’s just trying it, you know.”“Yeah, I heard that,” Will said, looking around the dirtykitchen. “Can’t blame her.”“Nope,” she said. “Water, milk, or hard liquor?”“Uh, water, I guess. I’m, like, on my lunch break, so liquor . . . .”“Sucks for you, more for me,” she poured a shot of liquor anda glass of water for herself, then a second glass of water for him.His heart tightened as he sat down at the familiar table.“How do you do it?” he asked, his voice cracking. “I mean, thememories and all?”“Think of it this way,” she said, sipping a bit of her water.“Could you live with yourself knowing you gave up the placewhere Try was most happy? Where everyone was happy?”“I don’t know,” Will said, looking down, trying to keepthe tears from starting. “No, I guess not,” he finally mustered.He caught a tear with the back of his hand. “No,” he said again,“I don’t think I could.”“I know she’d understand Cait leaving,” Angela said,resting her elbow on the table, her forehead in her hand. “Butshe wouldn’t want us to give the place up altogether.” They wereboth quiet for a few minutes before she spoke again. “Do youMerenda / 111

know what she said about you after you left that first night?That day you introduced yourself?”“No, I don’t think so,” he said, blinking hard to keep itheld back.“When you left, she smiled—you know that smile ofhers--over this very table, and said, ‘I think I fell in love withsomeone today. He’s one of the most charming people I’ve evermet.’ No kidding. That’s what she said.”Will didn’t know if Angela was telling the truth – but itsounded like Gray, and he needed to hear it.“You were, I mean, you are part of the family,” Angela said.They sat a while in silence, staring at the empty glasses.Finally Angela said, “Come on, Will. She told us not tobe like this.”“I just wish I could’ve, I don’t know, could’ve . . . .”“Stopped it? Bought her more time?” Angela finishedhis sentence. “Look, we talked about that. I couldn’t believe shewasn’t mad about it, so I asked her. I just asked. You know whatshe said?”It wasn’t a question she expected him to answer, butWill could think of several things Gray might’ve said.“She said, ‘it’s not what happens in the end, but whatyou do while you’re getting there’. She said she was happybecause she had you.”For the first time in months, William laughed. Forsome reason, he couldn’t help it. “So I guess we gotta keepgoing, right? Um, even if we have to sort of, uh, get drunk orsomething, or be selfish or something, sort of think too muchabout what we lost.”“Right.” Angela smiled a little. “And now I’m gonna beselfish.” She turned and poured another shot, then downed it.“Ah, better.”They both smiled.“Don’t get too smashed. I’ve gotta go back to work, so I’mnot gonna be here to hold your hair when all that comes back up.”Will stood up, with Angela close behind.“Listen, come visit me ever so often, all right?” she said.112 / Blackwater Review

“Yeah, I’ll bring lunch next time.”“Good.” She nodded.He walked to the door, then stopped. “Before I go . . . .”“Hm?”“What if she had gotten better? I mean, where would we be?”“We’d be as happy as she is now. We wouldn’t hurt anymore.”“Maybe,” he said. “Hey, if you need company, you knowwhere I am.” He tapped her arm, and walked toward the door.As he did, he took another look around the messy living room,the tired sofa, the tables tossed with CD cases and cardboardslides from videos. He wanted to feel her there, like in a movie;he wanted her ghost to speak to him, to tell him to move on.But she wasn’t there anymore.Outside, the clouds that had plagued the morning haddisappeared. It was sunny; Will looked up, blinking. Maybethat’s the sign, he thought, my message; maybe things werebeginning to clear. A brisk breeze blew down the sidewalks,sweeping the fall leaves against his pant legs. He pulled his jackclosed and reached into his jeans for his car keys. He was goingto be late getting back to work.Merenda / 113

114 / Blackwater Review

ContributorsAmanda Anderson is a senior at the Collegiate High School,veritably homeless, and believes in Maslow’s Hierarchy.Jessica Borsi, a sophomore at Collegiate High School, plansto pursue a career in voiceover acting after earning a degree inliterary and liberal arts.John Bruckelmeyer was born on Eglin AFB and grew up inNiceville. He is currently studying film and ultimately aspiresto be a screenwriter/director of his own films.Rebecca Cartwright has been studying art at Okaloosa-Walton College since 2000. She gathers inspiration from herfamily background and the struggles through the many diseasesthey have overcome.Lynda W. Cast is a professional musician (piano teacher and churchorganist). She recently resumed art study at Okaloosa-Walton College.Jayme Chatterton is a local artist who enjoys working in oilsand aerosol paints. She’s a fan of surrealism and lowbrow art.Regina Coley is a full time student to pursue a career inceramics. She enjoys working with clay and allowing it toexpress who she is.Melissa Cromer will graduate this year with a degree in commercialdesign. She would like to own a portrait studio one day. Every dayshe is closer to her dreams of being her true self, a photographer.Daniel Davis, a student at Okaloosa-Walton College, has beenwatching everything, and has a pretty good idea how it’s goingto end: not pretty.Jocelyn G. Donahoo is married with 4 adult sons, 2 daughtersin-laws,and 3 1⁄2 grandchildren. Creative writing has openedthe door to a new adventure in her life.Ashley Downie is twenty years old and hopes to become asuccessful veterinarian following graduation. In her free time,she loves to write, draw, and paint.Contributors / 115

Nivaska Eastwold is a native of Panama, republic of Panama.She has an enormous passion for the ethereal and sublimewhere she can explore the hue of her country.Ali Fisher, a senior at OWC Collegiate High School majoringin English and literature, plans to become an English professorafter graduating from Florida State University.Louise Fisher has lived in Fort Walton Beach since 1995and has been sculpting for three years. She loves to sculpt thehuman form. She is a detailed artist and enjoys working withclay of any kind. Porcelain is her favorite medium because it’slike working with butter.Sara Foraker, one year ago, had no idea where her road in lifewas headed. But, with a little blind luck and a lot of artisticgenes, she now has a good idea.Zach Gershkoff is a Collegiate High School student. He hasbeen published in Curiouser and Curiouser: An Anthology of VeryShort Stories.Libby Guerry, an artist, has been creating artwork most of herlife. Her pieces were done in mahogany, birch and cypress witha glossy spar varnish.David Hart began his art career in the fourth grade by creatinga colorful still life and later studied drawing and painting. Hisinspiration comes from the artistic influences he gained whiletraveling and living abroad.Elizabeth Hawkins is a student at the Collegiate High School and isactive in the drama department. She also enjoys writing and singing.Shana Heagwood is a 15-year-old sophomore at OWCCollegiate High School. She aspires to be a psychologist as wellas a famous musician one day.Sharon James has recently retired from a twenty-five year careeras a business owner. Her first effort in art began after retirement.June S. Jones’ creative designs grow out of her experience as afloral designer, custom cake decorator and experiments in various116 / Blackwater Review

art media. She has sold several of her unique works which springout of her love for the past and those who have touched her life.Sarah Kane, a sophomore at the Collegiate High School, thinkswe should spend less time conforming to society’s and moretime making snow globes out of baby-food jars.Thomas Leighton is a computer engineering major atOkaloosa-Walton College.Amy Longhenry is in her fourth semester studying Graphic Design.Deborah R. Majors has been working on her degree for manyyears, wore today’s fashion before it was retro, and has a son inthe Collegiate High School.Melissa McSwain loves art, whether it be painting, drawing,or photography. She enjoys it more than anything. She plans tocontinue her art as a career in either photography or interior design.Luz Maria Mendoza has been a registered nurse for twentyfiveyears and dreams of fulfilling her life with the beauty ofcreating with her hands.Nicole Merenda lives in Fort Walton Beach with hergrandparents, three cats, and beta fish. She hopes to study comicgraphics at Joe Kubert’s School of Comic Art and Cartooning.Okeye Mitchell is majoring in graphic design with an emphasison photography. He is currently in his third semester atOkaloosa-Walton College.Rob Morada is originally from Baltimore, Maryland. He movedto Fort Walton Beach two years ago when he joined the military.Maria B. Morekis of Fort Walton Beach, Florida has beentaking photography for the past three semesters. She hastaught mixed media art as a volunteer in the Okaloosa-CountySchool District for over 24 years.Chara Nelson is active in the OWC Student GovernmentAssociation. She will receive her AA in May of 2006 and seek aB.A. in English at the University of West Florida.Contributors / 117

Joseph Paul is a 24- year-old resident of Navarre and currentstudent at Okaloosa Walton College.Nathan Pemberton, a Collegiate High School student, isworking on the growth of a moustache and finishing the Louis-Ferdinand Céline novel he’s been neglecting.Caitlin Pierson is a senior at the OWC Collegiate High School.She likes music, makes noise, and fights with palmetto branches.Sara Richardson has been writing fiction since age 14,poetry since 15, and songs since 16. She graduated fromChoctawhatchee High School Summa Cum Laude.Stephanie Snyder was born on March 21, 1985. She is currentlypursuing a B.A. in magazine journalism at the University of Florida.Joanna Soria is in the interdisciplinary humanities program atthe University of West Florida. She lives in Fort Walton Beach.Sue Tarkin is a 54-year-old grandmother of three beautiful girlswho enjoys retirement with the love of her life, Gary. She hadher first art lesson in January 2005 with Lynn Rackley and hasexplored in a variety of media.Elizabeth Traxel is a senior at the Collegiate High School.Abe Toner grew up in Wyoming but now enjoys the beaches ofthe Panhandle.Gordon West is an 18-year-old Collegiate High School studentbound for the University of Colorado at Boulder to study thefiner points of becoming a starving English teacher.Okaloosa-Walton College100 College BoulevardNiceville, Florida32578www.owc.eduOkaloosa-Walton College is an equal access, equal opportunity institution.118 / Blackwater Review

CONTRIBUTORSDaniel BakerTiffany BostonLily BrunsShelly BushKyra CandellJayme ChattertonMeagan DahlStacy Davis-TsuiHolly DowdenKaitlyn DucharmeAdam DuckworthSara ForakerMatt HaemmerleDenise HarriganSandra Clay HarrisonMaegan HartleyAnita HesterDishonda HopkinsShannon E. HorningSharon JamesDanielle KellyJoan LanghamTesse MagallanDeborah R. MajorsMelissa McSwainJames MelvinDareen MohamadRob MoradaMaria B. MorekisMolly MosherDonovan MurdorfMaurice L. PriceSara RichardsonAshley SchreckengastAlisa SelfSidney SpeerAmber StokesMelba ThompsonReid TuckerKyle WebbJzolandria WilliamsBlackwater ReviewSpring 2007Blackwater ReviewSpring 2007A Journal of Literature and Art

Blackwater Review

Blackwater ReviewA Journal of Literature and ArtVolume 5, No. 1 Spring 2007Okaloosa-Walton CollegeNiceville, Florida

Blackwater Review aims to encourage student writing, studentart, and intellectual and creative life at Okaloosa-Walton Collegeby providing a showcase for meritorious work. The BWR is publishedannually at Okaloosa-Walton College and is funded by thecollege.Editors:Julie Nichols, FictionAmy Riddell, PoetryArt Director:Benjamin GillhamEditorial Advisory Board:Jack Gill, Vickie Hunt, Delores Merrill,Charles Myers, Deidre PriceArt Advisory Board:J.B. Cobbs, Benjamin Gillham, Stephen PhillipsLyn Rackley, Karen Valdes, Ann WatersGraphic Design and Photography:Candice Joslin, James MelvinAll selections published in this issue are the work of students;they do not necessarily reflect the views of members of the administration,faculty, staff, District Board of Trustees, or FoundationBoard of Okaloosa-Walton College.©2007 Okaloosa-Walton College.All rights are owned by the authors of the selectionsFront Cover Photograph:Window, Michael McLeish

AcknowledgmentsThe editors and staff extend their sincere appreciationto Dr. James R. Richburg, President, and Dr. Jill White, SeniorVice President, Okaloosa-Walton College, for their support ofthe Blackwater Review.We are also grateful to Frederic LaRoche, sponsor ofthe James and Christian LaRoche Distinguished EndowedTeaching Chair in Poetry and Literature, which funds the annualJames and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest,whose winner is included in this issue.

CONTENTSThe Groom, Sidney Speer 1Fine Weather for Driving, Reid Tucker 2Corset on a Soapbox, Amber Stokes 4Flared Nostrils, Deborah Majors 6Omi, Sidney Speer 7Tacit Violin, Daniel Baker 14Sincerity, Kyra Candell 16Apple Picking, Matt Haemmerle 17Coup de Grâce, Dareen Mohamad 19Bait, Sidney Speer 20Metropolis, Kyle Webb 22Blaze, Denise Harrigan 23In My Corner, Sidney Speer 24Trash Day, Molly Mosher 25The Pharmacy Closes at 10 p.m., Adam Duckworth 26Holiday Arsenal, Meagan Dahl 27Unsettled Soils, Ashley Schreckengast 29Two Parchments: Arm-Wrestling with my Father, Reid Tucker 32

Selfish, Stupid, and Willful, Lily Bruns 33Winter Forest, Donovan Murdorf 35Tides, Denise Harrigan 36Float Away, Alissa Self 37Through Boarded Windows and Open Doors, Meagan Hartley 38Happy Again, Daniel Baker 55What is Black Love?, Jzoliandria Williams 63Amniotic Egg, Ashley Schreckengast 65Wish For Rememberance, Daniel Baker 67On How He Hopes His Hair Isn’t Too ShortShannon E. Horning 69Late Night, Rob Morada 71Ages, Sidney Speer 78Observation, Kyra Candell 79There’s a Fountain Flowing Deep and Wide but You Can’t Seem to Find ItAdam Duckworth 80Birthday Suprise, Sara Richardson 82Walmart Bags, Deborah Majors 84Coming Home, Ashley Schreckengast 86Four Verses, James Melvin 88

Planting a Garden, Shelly Bush 90All the Tears, Tiffany Boston 93Deutschland, Dareen Mohamad 95After the Peace, Meagan Hartley 96Heartbeat of a Family, Meagan Dahl 98COLOR PLATESSpring Bees, Jayme Chatterton 39Duality, The Contortionist, Holly Dowden 40Multi-Grain Chip on My Shoulder, Sara Foraker 41Roses on Fire, Sandra Clay Harrison 42Ruwach, Anita Hester 43Untitled, Dishonda Hopkins 44Red Tide, Sharon James 45Shelf, Danielle Kelly 46Shadows, Joan Langham 47Untitled, Jesse Magallan 48Untitled, Melissa McSwain 49Hidden Weapons, Maria B. Morekis 50Editor, James Melvin 51

The Pool, Maurice L. Price 52Turmoil Within, Stacy Davis-Tsui 53From The Street, Melba Thompson 54

The GroomSidney SpeerClasped hands before his waistWrists bound by the white rim of starched sleeveGraced by antique moonstone cufflinks,He is still as stone.An Easter Island monumentStaring at his own likenessHereafter.Mozart preludes prepare attendant hearts.A heralding of angel.Set jaw above his shouldersNoosed by Hermès silk,A double knot.He is pressed to perfection.Utility and breeding, packaged,Waiting delivery from his lifeInto another.Bach fugues freeze the mother’s fears.A seducing of her precious.His hair parted as if splitBy the arrow of that vile temptress,Leaving no blood,No visible woundBut a stolen heartAnd his organ of loveDangling from Cupid’s sheath.Handel processionals position the mournersStanding for the end of the start.The beginning of the beginning.Speer / 1

2 / Blackwater ReviewFine Weather for DrivingReid TuckerThe windows were rolled down partly to cool us off inlieu of air conditioning, partly so that I could command a dominatingpresence over the length of hood, and partly so that itwould be loud inside the car, so loud I could pretend I didn’thear what I wish she would say, would have to holler over ather, momentarily avert my gaze from the blacktop, and let mewatch her mouth and eyes so that I could be sure what I heardwas real. But she never said anything, just propped her head onher arm, and rested it in the open window while we flew pastthe rows of barren cotton stalks in the fields on either side. Herother hand was on the faded black vinyl of the seat beside myfist while it choked the life out of fourth gear, the speedometerheld steady at 70. It was Saturday afternoon in the early autumn,and the weather was fine for driving with the windowsdown, despite how much I hated it.I glanced, just a movement of the eyes, imperceptibly,over her litheness and the afternoon’s melancholy and theburning orange daylight that lingered on her neck, her opaquebrown hair that curled just before her shoulders, and the whiteshirt she wore, the sun bathing them in molten radiance. Ilooked back at the road when I saw her hand start to moveacross the partially cracked seat cover, a sort of shudder, withthe little finger reaching to pull the rest of the hand over; thenails that were never painted around me glistened a little in thelight. I just gripped the wheel and squeezed down the gas, theroar from the headers blasting away the immediacy, and thefour-barrel opened up and I turned down the dirt road to ourright, off of the highway.I looked over again: she was staring at the floorboard,and the diamonds I gave her caught the sun in their prisms andshot a chameleon of fiery light across the plastic dashboard. Theair was cooler now, out of the direct sun, and I frowned whenthe car bounced on its thirty-six-year-old frame as it moved

across a well worn rut in the road and we were lifted for a fractionof a moment and she still didn’t look over, and more so,that she pressed her palm against the seat and it didn’t move,not even involuntarily toward me. I slowed the car down whenI had passed several houses and the fields that their residentsworked, filled with the huge tight-packed, tarpaulin-toppedmodular bales of cotton yet to be taken to the gin. The roadwidened out and I pulled off to the side, half slashed by an oaktree’s shadow as the Chevelle came to rest out of the way. Acloud of our dust blew past and, caught in the rays of the sun,dueled down the light to disappear in the armrest she leanedon, the tops of her legs together and smooth and their fairnessglowed against the car’s hard black interior. Finally she lookedat me. I didn’t release the wheel, but stared straight ahead,through the distant trees at the setting sun, a pinprick of lightabove the empty fields.I could feel the air reverberate with the glacial coldnessof the blue in her eyes and still I could not look towards her. Icould read the names of all the others before this most recentone in that space between her gaze and my face, transient andshifting as the dust that still hovered in the air. He was anotherin the list of whom she would leave and go back to and cry overon the phone for hours; the ones I hated, unfairly, when I sawher walking with them through the halls of school, the onesI resented when she would smile knowingly, sadly, beautifullyat me, seeing me looking at the two of them. I loathed myself,hiding behind a V8 and the memories of the times when wewere alone and she would look, and finally see me, and thosemoments when she kissed me and was someone else’s, alwayssomeone else’s, and never enough her own; how, instead of initiativeI had a conscience and her friendship, and that, I reasoned,was better than nothing.When I didn’t look at her she slowly reached her handout and touched mine, still gripping the shifter, and my heartdrowned out the pipes, bought for her to hear.Tucker / 3

4 / Blackwater ReviewCorset on a SoapboxAmber StokesToday.I will wear my bonesoutside my skin,to remember the Ones before me.Mothers, standing on street corners.And those, who ralliedwith bleeding signs in the rain,proudly proclaiming thesoft pink lilies between their legs.Lace me up,Until my breasts turn violet.Those fully ripened plums,pinned to my chestsend the flies vomiting in delight.Those thieves of Hera’s milk,sucking the sweet honey from my heart.I will hold my hot breath of conviction,until I have coughed out Adam’s rib.While a wet silence streamsrivers from tired eyes,to salty cheeks and intomouths calling for Patience.But he is pinned down and forced to confess,I am a woman.Squeeze a vase of fertile liliesfrom voluptuous fervent flesh.Hidden between mended lace, anAphroditian apostle waits. An

A-line statue with plagiarized hips,conforming to a fashionably flawed vision,while the heads of men perspire,erect with content disillusion.I will stare confused once more,at the cold cloth cadavers hanging in my closet.A sigh, for the sad witches of MALEdiction,whose fortune left them swingingfrom branches so tall,their feet no longer touch the ground.Lace me up,I wear the neon vertical v’s,signaling towards the hope of an era,when hearts will be humbled.From reminders of what is,and never was a sacred flower of moon dropsand baby hair. The scented perfumes of life.So, today.I will wear my bonesoutside my skin,vicariously. So that our daughters may dance nakedbehind their bedroom doors andlike children, marvel at new found body parts,while they make love to mirrors with the lights on,still trying to unravel the knots their motherstied behind their backs.Stokes / 5

6 / Blackwater ReviewFlared NostrilsDeborah R. MajorsI smell like old peoplewhen I visit himin this place corralling the sickand dying, like a musty atticwipedwith a single cotton ball,alcoholheavied.The pungent promiseevaporates,leavingbehindthe returningwornodorof time, dust, and usemingled with suspenders, shawls,slippers, and sticks for walking.I disdainthis aromathat clings to my framelike knit pants to knee highs,revealing illusionas I step back,tricked,offended and brazen,gloating in my newness,daringDeathto spritzmy squared shoulderswith its signature cologne

OmiSidney SpeerThe debate all summer revolved around arrival dates–mine and the baby’s. Lexy wanted me in Frankfurt two weeksafter the baby came so I could take over kitchen patrol whenStefan returned to work. I agreed, but during the summermonths I heard fear in my daughter’s voice, so I opted to flyjust when the baby was due. As my flight departed Atlanta, Ireceived word that Lexy and Stefan were driving to the BurgherBirth Center near the Alfred-Brehm-Pfingst-Platz in Frankfurt.She was having contractions. Somewhere above the Atlantic Iwould become Omi, or so I thought.Instinct had guided my timing of the flight, but it wasuncomfortable. Five seats across the middle and I was deadcenter, Mr. Bigpig on my left, Mr. Sniff on my right. The snotpoured out of his nose like Karo syrup, and he declined my offersof Kleenex as if I would infect him with bird flu. I could feelmy glands swell while I tried to sleep. Stuck in the on position,the overhead light spotlighted my forehead as if I were beinginterrogated for the entire nine-hour flight.Arrival was 9:00 AM Frankfurt time, but my body knewit was just before dawn, and I was the walking dead. Crowdsbustled past me getting tickets, clearing customs, rushing fortrains, but it seemed the terminal was ghostly quiet. No laughter,no children screaming, no cacophony of conversations;travelers stood waiting in silence for family and baggage. Thiswas Germany. I heard my name spoken softly and controlledmy excitement as Stefan hurried toward me.“Tell me,” I spoke after our hugs, “are you a father yet?”“Actually,” he answered in perfect but rather formalEnglish, “our beautiful Lexy was admitted last night, but nolittle one has yet arrived. Things are progressing slowly. Shall Itake you to the hotel, or will you return to delivery with me?”Driving across the Main River into Frankfurt, Stefanpointed out the ruins of the Roman aqueduct and describedhow the empire was defeated by his ancestors. His polishedSpeer / 7

manner and diction matched his Arian fine features, but Iknew he was anxious because he drove extremely fast, even fora German. I marveled that my daughter had vowed to marrythis man after their first meeting, and in eighteen months hadadopted a new country, learned a new language, and created anew life form.“Will she get the epidural, what you call the PDA?” I asked.“She has certainly been demanding it, but the Hebammes--thoseare the midwives--support natural childbirth.They run the birthing center and can inhibit the doctors fromusing drugs. This baby is large, and Lexy is scared they willmake her deliver naturally.” He downshifted out of the roundaboutand drove even faster.We rushed up four flights of stairs, and I stifled a heartattack as we entered the birthing room. Lexy had likened it to atorture chamber, and I could see her point. The bed was round,with curved sections that moved or tilted, increasing the size orchanging the shape of the bed. From large hooks screwed intothe ceiling, a hammock-shaped piece of greasy green fabric withseveral large knots hung directly over the bed. Beneath the knottedfabric on the circular birth bed was my Lexy. She was big asa whale. She looked tired, scared, and embarrassed, especiallywhen I couldn’t quite get my arms around her for a hug.“I’ve missed you so much.” I held her for a long time,inhaling the smell of her hair.She cried softly when she saw me. “Oh, Ma, do I lookterrible? Don’t answer.”At that moment her doctor appeared and told Stefanand me to wait outside. She had already been induced; now hewould break Lexy’s water and return to his practice.“Things happen fast once the water breaks,” I said.“Might there be a Starbucks nearby?”If he heard me, Stefan didn’t reply. He was so thin I wasembarrassed to mention my hunger. “Lexy has been here allnight,” he said. “Maybe it’s just a false alarm.”“No chance of that, not once the water breaks,” I smiled,hoping to see a Coke machine, but I already knew there wouldbe no such convenience.8 / Blackwater Review

When we re-entered the birth room, there was vomiton the floor. Lexy was alone and she was pleading for help. Isent Stefan to find someone. He discovered the birth centerwas full; every room was in use; every employee was attending.Hair raising screams came from behind closed doorways.Soon a young girl entered and sat in a chair. She was the receptionist,she explained. Everyone else was busy.Lexy contorted with pain. “Mom, what do I do?”“What did they teach you in classes?” I said helplessly.“I didn’t take classes because Stefan was always workingand couldn’t go.”“Well, what about books?” I said. “What books did you read?”“The books here are all in German.” Lexy was groaning.“So,” I said.“Mom, I barely speak German. I can’t read it.”“But, honey, you work in a German law firm.”“They pay me to fix their English, not read German,”she hissed.“How about take the shot and call me in the morning,”I chided, but Lexy wasn’t listening. She was screaming bloodyhell. Stefan was sitting on the platform facing her, braced asshe bore down against him. I applied a cool cloth to Lexy’sneck and fast-forwarded every episode of medical TV I couldrecall: Dr. Kildare, Marcus Welby M.D., ER, Grey’s Anatomy. Mytwo children were born over thirty years ago, and all I did wasshow up. I was draped for privacy, had the benefit of shots,surgical kit, and forceps, and had someone at my shouldertelling me what to do every minute that passed. And it had allbeen in English.“Breathe,” I spoke with conviction. She started to parrotmy breathing. Then a pause. I told Stephan to check thetime to make him feel useful. Before long Lexy yelled again,and I got her panting like a professional athlete. Anotherpause. The young girl fled and during the next spasm, an olderHebamme entered and stood aloof in the corner. Lexy spokein German. I heard the consonant sounds for p, d and shortvowel a, and the word bitte. The woman looked negative.“Bitch,” Lexy spoke in English. Then as the next waveSpeer / 9

of pain twisted her, she let out an amazing flurry of German,interlaced with a purely American expletive. I heard bark barkbark fuck bark bark ph dh ah bark bark. Whatever Lexy wassaying, it was not making the Hebamme sympathetic for her.I had seen Lexy speak French before, which was a lovely picture,but hearing her hack out these guttural syllables hardenedmy feeling that this was a house of horrors.The baby’s position changed, and Lexy needed to push.The Hebamme remained indifferent. “Lexy,” I said. “Why arethey not helping you?”“They dislike Americans. They say we always wantdrugs, which of course we do. I should have told them I wasfrom Canada.”“I suggest you try the hanging device,” I said, not havinga clue what to do.“Shit,” she said. “If you’re in the torture chamber,might as well use the toys.”She grabbed the knot, trying to climb to the ceiling to escapethe pain.When she lay still again, I walked to the foot of the bed.Lexy was almost completely unclothed, her bare legs were bentand spread wide. I could see the baby’s skull which was morethan I wanted to see. It appeared about the size of a tennisball, so I told her to keep pushing. Stefan shifted his weightto come stand beside me when Lexy grabbed him by the collar.“Don’t you even look in that direction,” her jaw tightened as ifshe were giving birth to the words.The tennis ball flowered into a softball, and Lexy weakened.A slim, dark complexioned man entered the room. Ithought perhaps he was an orderly, to clean the floor, but hewas impeccably dressed in white shirt and pants with sharpcreases. He watched with a detached air of authority.“Doctor?” I inquired. He nodde affirmative.“Omi?” He inquired.I nodded, and stood straighter. I was Grandma.The softball had expanded to the size of a tea saucer,but with each push event it failed to emerged as Lexy becamemore exhausted and less able to strain. We were stuck.10 / Blackwater Review

I looked at Doctor and said in my best faux language, “Episiotomy?”He lifted his shoulders and looked bored.Panic nipped me. Lexy was softly weeping on Stefan’schest; her tears darkened a design on his cable knit vest. Hestroked her hair, whispering how wonderful it would be whenthey were a family. How improbable, I thought. This man whokeeps his neckties coiled in rows in the bureau loves Lexy whodrops her dirty underwear in front of the toilet seat. He didn’tappear concerned, but he couldn’t see what I was looking at.This baby was going to be the size of a small house, and I wasafraid it would injure Lexy, or the baby, or both, to linger inthis state.I spoke to the Doctor and Hebamme. They heard yipyip yee yee malpractice yip yip yee, but neither showed anysigns of taking action. After Lexy gave one more heartless andhapless push, I walked up to the doctor, if he really was one,violently slapped my right fist into my left hand, and did mybest to communicate via eye contact that if anyone was goingto die today, it would be him.Slowly, and without expression, he turned and openeda drawer, pulling out a felt wrapped bundle of instruments.It looked just like the tool packet that came in my neighbor’sfirst BMW. He sauntered across the room and took somethingoff a hook. It was a long apron, the kind a meat butcher wears,only it was sewn of clear plastic. The straps went around hisneck and tied behind his waist, and it hung to the floor. Stefanlooked at me and we both swallowed. The butcher drewa scalpel from the packet and then put on some gloves. Hecrossed the room and sat beside Lexy on the wide part of theplatform across from Stefan and, sterile gloves on, patted heron the leg. He said nothing to Lexy or Stefan.She tried to muster another push, but she was spent.Stefan and I weren’t sure it was the right thing to do, but weencouraged her to keep pushing. As she pushed as hard asshe could, sweat dropping into her eyes, the butcher casuallyreached over and, with the same motion you would use to cutthe twine on a Christmas package, sliced her at the opening,making a minute nick on the crown of the baby’s head.Speer / 11

Lexy screamed. Blood gushed. The baby came. I had tosteady my heartbeat, but Stefan was calling me to get the camera.The Hebamme sprang into action when the baby emerged,and when she handed Stefan his swaddled baby, I snapped it,their first introduction, father and daughter eye-to-eye. Thedigital camera was the most high tech instrument used duringthe delivery.Lexy lay there in a pool of her blood for at least fortyminutes. The butcher leaned back against the wall. I half expectedhim to smoke a cigarette. Then another doctor came in,and they argued about something, I learned later it was aboutanesthesia for the stitches, but Lexy never got any. Stephandidn’t notice; he was lost in fatherhood, his head and the baby’sresting on Lexy’s heart. Then the butcher just sewed herup, Lexy crying out, but not as loud as before. He wrapped thebloody sheet into a ball and threw it across the room into thesink, splattering blood against the mirror behind the faucet.“Stefan,” I said. “I thought Germans were clean freaks.”He shrugged, not taking his eyes off his beautiful daughter.The clock showed six in the evening, twenty-four hourssince I had departed Atlanta. I embraced the idea everyonewould rest now, but they helped Lexy walk to a charming privateroom with a balcony overlooking a garden. Before Lexyeven lay down, Stefan’s brother and girlfriend ran in, brimmingwith excitement, presents and food. Lexy, high on post partumadrenaline, babbled in German about her delivery.In Germany no one cares what babies weigh. A ninepoundone-ounce baby is of no consequence to a German. Forthem it is all about the skull size. Lexy had bragging rights. Herfriends realized her little cherub was the size of a three-monthold,and when they read 37 centimeters on the ID card, Lexygot some respect, and moreover, she felt respect for her own labors.She had survived a German rite of passage. More friendsarrived, a family of five with wine and gifts. Lexy walked to thebathroom, blood trickling down her leg, unnoticed by everyoneexcept the two small children. I relaxed behind the languagebarrier, too ignorant to converse in German, too tired to try.By nine the guests were gone, although more were re-12 / Blackwater Review

ported on the way. A nurse pushed Stefan outside and barkedsomething at Lexy, who clearly did not understand. The tallnurse was dressed in white, had a thin straight nose and blondhair tied in a bob atop her head. She looked like a duck. Shespoke again. I heard quack, quack . . . quack quack, ice condom,quack, bark bark, quack. Lexy looked completely confused,but she nodded in agreement. The nurse left the room, thenreturned with the biggest frozen member you could imagine.I raised my eyebrows, to which she retorted, quack quack, icecondom episiotomy, quack bark quack. Lexy laughed so hard shewould have split herself open, if she wasn’t already. I wrappedthe frozen thing in a wash towel and she set it between Lexy’slegs to calm the swelling.I kissed my sleepy daughter, her husband, and theirbeautiful infant, took a nice bottle of the gift wine and left beforethe next onslaught of Germans arrived, stopping briefly atthe nurses’ station to speak to the duck lady. A cab drove meinto Sachenhausen, the old section of the city left intact afterWWII, and stopped just two blocks from Lexy’s house at a dimlylit sign, Hotel Kautz. Herr Kautz apologized that the kitchenwas closed as he gave me my fifth floor room key and pointed tothe stairway. I considered sleeping on the third floor landing,but managed to struggle up to my room, dropping everythingexcept the wine bottle just inside the door. I opened the wine.The hotel was too European to provide refrigerants, but therewas an ice condom in my purse. I smashed it in the sink, droppinga big ice chunk into a plastic drinking glass. From the openwindow I heard patrons of the Apfelwein garden below. Theysat outside drinking and singing at long bench tables, swayingtogether as one. I emptied my glass and poured another, listeningto the revelers. Maybe the next night I would drink and singwith them.Speer / 13

14 / Blackwater ReviewThe Tacit Violin(song for strained strings)Daniel BakerWhile my stringshave been strummed,plucked,and pickedlightly, intenselymade to singand sigh,to moan whenbowed,to purrthe instanturged,at present,silenceis their sound.I grasp my strings instillness.They gasp for music, theyshall have none. For whenplayed their pitch pains, and pricksat lacerations leftby those who have foundsatisfaction,beating with their bow.And thoughI will not hear mystrings joined in joy,neither willI be agonized withtorturous tones.

Now I will never speak.I’ve been played like fire in the forest,Like the frenzied winds of the storm.Forced to voice words not mine,To spew them, to shriek them,To whisper these lies.I shall not be played.Baker / 15

SincerityKyra CandellCan you hand her something realSomething tangibleNot just thoughts that collect on dusty, aged shelvingCan you hand her something raw and unfinishedSomething texturedFrayed denim fabric with weathered seamsNo pristine cloth with a pressed, stainless bodyCan you show her a glimpse of warmthOr just unaltered emotionBe it poignant or plainShe does not crave stoic ideasOr black and white truths with sharp cornersLet her see the wrinkles in your smileThe imperfections that sleep beneathShow her that giftThe veracity of your heartAnd when she sees those worn corners, the sincere huesThat is the honesty she once thought absent16 / Blackwater Review

Apple PickingMatt HaemmerleI step out into the fresh air and watch the vibrant leavesseared with fiery hues twitter in the breeze. A memory frommy youth that I had relived in my head many times before issuddenly evoked. At age eleven I went apple picking, and manytimes in autumn when the crisp wind brushes by me, I relapseinto an earlier stage of my life, amongst the ripening appletrees in the rustic field.I tugged my red fleece down to my waist to ease thenumbness from the chilly air. Rows and rows of stubby appletrees were lined like soldiers. Searching for a tree to climb, I randown the gap of two rows with my wooden bucket danglingfrom my clenched hands. The many ripe apples flushed out anaura of fragrant smells that was so thick it had to be pushedout of the way. I grasped the outstretched arm of a tree andpulled myself up. The bark of the coarse trunk gave me the gripI needed to boost up onto a limb and rest in the solace of mychildhood.On a branch I paused briefly to catch my breath. Thesun peered through the tree limbs, splashing light on the frosthardenedground, the unmerciful world below. Up high in thetree of my youth, I felt completely guileless. The warm sunthawed my back, and I felt free from troubles and complications.For now I would not eat the forbidden apples as Adamand Eve once did. I was fortified with my innocence up in thebranches of my Eden, which wasn’t to perish just yet. Standingfrom up in the tree I saw a field, apple trees, and mangledleaves; everything was still.That is what I saw then, but today I see the broader imagethat I hadn’t understood before. Today I recall that beyondthe pumpkin patch tall strands of tawny grass were waving inthe wind. The limbs on the apple trees swayed gently. Fallenleaves, much like people who’ve fallen from their childhoodtree, surged to life, springing off the ground and anticipatingHaemmerle / 17

the tumble that they were to eventually take back onto the hard,stodgy earth littered with obstacles like twigs and rocks. Everythingwas in constant motion, and everything would eventuallysuccumb to the ground--even people. For those brief momentsin the tree I thought I was stagnant in time; today I only wishthat were so. I jumped down from the tree, out of my youth,and into a world full of obstacles in such a hurry, and now allI want to do is climb back up. This is impossible, though, andnow I eat apples and tumble with everybody else on the hard,stodgy earth.18 / Blackwater Review

Coup de GrâceDareen MohamadI am not Zarathustra, but I shall speak.Nor am I Tolstoy, but no less do I feel the Kingdom of Godwithin me.Castles and castles and castles of dust.Fungus in the government, extremism in the brush.We are a Christian nation living on Prozac pills.Unyielding to our temptations, we’re drowning in McFlurry fills.The administration? People educated and learned.What are we getting in return?Blank sensations and patriotic rug burns.What are we standing for?1984 is waiting in the corridor.We are the era of the automatons.Idiotic blue skies and polluted black swans.We’ll kill our fellow man! We’ll blow him into shards!Fancy black suits and phony business cards!How well you smell, Mr. X!You quell with your artillery shells, embedded in survival’s chest.Won’t you ask “What is worse than the man who kills becauseof religious conviction?”I promise to reply with “The masses who have been convincedby this politician.”“What luck for rulers that men do not think.” - How right you are,Monsieur Adolf.Reduced to this, oblivious and distracted by the circus,we shall blindly waltz to the sound of Strauss.We are waltzing, waltzing into the damnation of us.Mohamad / 19

20 / Blackwater ReviewBaitSidney SpeerIn the cool salty air, steamfrom her morning coffee liftedlike fog. A crazy seabird cavortingnear the reef caught her attention.She watched it lift from thesurf then plunge into a swell, saw itgambol like a pinball bouncing offa fuchsia sunrise, alighting on her dockwinging off, then losing lift as if crashingan invisible window, screaming into the waves.A familiar ring tone moved herfrom the veranda. “Three o’clock is fine,” she said,“the house will smell of fresh baked brownies.”Soft shell crab undulated on a hook. The lineinvisible snapped the gull from flight, flingingthe bird out of trajectory after it stole its prize,the barb digging deep as the unforgivingtensile jerked the tethered bird back to the sea.Dazed, the creature rose again to be yanked,landing where the sinister twine wrapped itselfon pier and pile, tangling, tearing, ensnaringwings in a translucent web of filamental death.It was not quick.By midday fifty feet of unseenstring adorned the dock, untilthe bird at last dangled from the edge, head down, likea trussed squab slowly turning on an invisiblespit in the gentle midday breeze.

In the warm salty air the salesman urgedexpectant buyers to appreciate the seascape,noticed a web wrapped like yellowtape at a crime scene. Diverting theirattention, he found the pitiful bird of twinesuspended barely above its reflection.“Lets go see the house,” heescorted them to land. “The ownermade some brownies, and there’s a nursery.”Speer / 21

They bleat,A mass of mannequins.Mindless meat—Fish without fins.Oblivious to life,Mechanical monotony.Blind under the knife,Megalomaniacal society.Like cows to the slaughter,Pigs on the wing.Anarchical Big Brother,Pharisees, let us sing.Vanity, lust,Vacuous minds.Arrogant power just,Egg timers wind.Grazing in the pasture,Like sides of beef.Complacent master,Sheep.MetropolisKyle Webb22 / Blackwater Review

BlazeDenise HarriganSparks flying through the air catch ahollow of drought, igniting lusty devotion.A ruby glow kindles in the arid twilight air.Flames saunter across the forest floor,tickling the roots of sturdy oaks,the thirsty bark combusting into an inferno.Fiery locks caress chiseled hickory trunks.Tendrils of flame licking each branchfondling, stroking, devouring each limb inan embrace of greedy, insatiable hunger.Whispering leaves of longing dance throughtorrid currents, rushing to be consumed inwaves of crimson and amber rapture,roaring with pleasure in crackling laughter.Billowing clouds of smoke riseto drown out the moonlight.A canvas of shadows surrounds the hardwoods as they succumb to the molten blaze.The sun rises on a soft hush ofsatisfaction, as smoldering emberseternally bind fire and forestin ashy gray cinders.Harrigan / 23

In My CornerSidney SpeerMy desk is small, standing at the side wall besidea fire that rarely burns.The old swivel envelops me, and kitty too,posing a soft curl beneath the warmth from the green lampshade.My throat constricts, I sort and shove papers into pilesaround the floor until I feel burl walnutwaxy like my old man’s skin,cigarette burns at the edge still smell of fingertipswiping my tear, telling me I can.24 / Blackwater Review

Trash DayMolly MosherHenry was a toddler, Mister, and he loved his blanket.He loved it so much that he carried it with him everywhere. Ithad a hole in the middle, and Henry wore it as if it were a pictureframe. The satin edges were worn by love.His father, General Stevens, hated this blanket; he thoughtit made his son look like a sissy. He had never had a blanket.One Tuesday, the General told Henry a story.“Son, you know the garbage man who stops by hereevery Monday and Wednesday?”“Yes, sir.”“He is so poor that he sleeps outside on the ground, and hehas a daughter who does the same. They don’t even have a blanket.”Henry looked at the General, knowing what was asked of him.“Good talk, son.”A week passed and Henry continued to love his blanket,more than ever, perhaps. He knew he couldn’t keep it forever.The next day was Wednesday, and Henry knew the garbage manwould be coming.When trash day finally came, Henry saw the garbageman pull up. He walked outside and walked his four-year-oldself up to the man who was removing their refuse.“This is for your daughter,” Henry said, placing theblanket into the garbage man’s filthy gloved hand.The garbage man gave it one look, and tossed it into theback with the other trash.Mosher / 25

The Pharmacy Closes at 10 p.m.Adam DuckworthThe bags of plastic in one hand,the bottle in the otherrefracting the light in an amber brown tint,promising doses of smiles in ten milligramsas the chemicals crash in the bloodstreamlike a cymbal in a symphony.He puts the pill in his jittery palm,praying to a god regulated by the endorphinsthat it evens out as he swallows,as he gulpsas he takes it in like the scent of perfumeduring a kiss.26 / Blackwater Review

Holiday ArsenalMeagan DahlDad’s beloved, rusted red jeep charges up the canyonroad. Bracing against the cold, I roll down the passenger windowto drive away the smell of stale cigarettes. The bitter windthreatens my carefully curled ponytail tied up with a baby bluegingham ribbon, so I jerk the handle and roll the mud streakedwindow up again. I get to see dad only a couple of times a year;I don’t understand why he can’t stop smoking for a measlythree days so that I can breathe. The jeep pulls up to a spacioushome perched high above the river. Dad puts out his cigaretteand turns on a smile.“Here we go, Sweetie.”We are greeted at the front door by a bunch of smiling,unfamiliar people and the smells of Thanksgiving dinner. Dadrests his hand on the back of my neck, an intimate gesture thatsuddenly seems inappropriate. I know that these people invitedus because they know dad can’t cook and that he wants toimpress me. The other kids are watching a Disney movie in theden, but I wander aimlessly around the house to wait for dinnerand avoid uncomfortable conversations. There are photoseverywhere of posed family portraits, vacations to Mazatlan,and awkward prom couples. Everything in the house remindsme of what Dad and I don’t have. I pass by a window and cansee his broad shoulders hunched against the cold. Dad towersat 6’6” but never stands up straight, like people won’t noticehis size if he slumps down and hides in corners. He’s out there,all alone on the deck, smoking and hating this as much as Ido. Dinner is announced, and by some miracle I am allowedto leave the kiddy table and sit with the adults. These peopleremind me of my mom and step-dad, talking all at once aboutbooks, art, traveling to Europe, politics, and tragedies in Africa.I watch dad stare at his food and slouch even farther downin his chair. I finish my pumpkin pie and long to have this dinnerwith my own family, who are not these nice strangers. WeDahl / 27

are all feeling the effects of a turkey coma when dad pulls outa carefully wrapped box. He sets it in front of me with hopeshining in his eyes.“Happy Thanksgiving!”I tear open the box with an illustration of a deer in thecrosshairs on the lid. A Remington 22 rifle lies in a pile of paperon the table. I want to run for cover, as if this gun willstand up on its own and shoot me between the eyes like thatinnocent deer. All of the dirty little boys crowd around me likeseagulls begging for a crust of bread. What dad notices is thatI never once touch the cold black steel.“Hey, Sweetie, we can get some cans and target practiceout on the deck.”“Dad, it’s too cold out there and I’m too full…maybesome other time.”The boys play tug-o-war with the gun while I watch Dadgo out on the deck alone to smoke another cigarette. I want torun out there and scream at him for humiliating me in frontof another family, but instead, I fold the blanket of tissue overthe gun and hold back tears as I shut the lid.28 / Blackwater Review

Unsettled SoilsAshley Schreckengast(a sip of hospital coffee and newspaper ads)Somewhereis a road ofred dirt and dust.A place where sidewalksnarrow to an endand the grasscurls like fringealong the edges.No signs here, noblinking lightsor busy noises.(a lively man, stiff in his death bed)Blah, this ancient speaks to me.“What’s that?Did you actually speak for once?”It’s just senseless drool.“Why do you care to try?”I’m baffled,By this spewing nothingness.He speaks,struggling with that heavy tongue.Nodded remarks are made forThose words too tough to say.He bites back pain,And I am tiredOf hollow sounds on pinch-y notes.(discovering the discomfort of falling asleep beside the patient)Suffering.He’s here withThe beeping machines,the cool metal bed frames,he must be frightened.Yet he tries so hard,Schrechengast / 29

To keep the act alive.Why didn’t he tell me?Wheezing machines.( the will is left intact)Back and belowis a mountainof ecru smokes and undertones.A scene where ledgescrumble to granulated saltand rocksstand like tawny ancientspreserving the sands.No life here, noroaming spiritsor hindering obstacles.(Alive, but not well)He twitches in his sleep.“Am I seeing things or canthat skeleton move?”He blinks back pain,Swaging a finger like itConsoles.Simple illusions to unreliable gestures.He squeezes my hand.“Why attempt?How can you think this eases?”He has a begging stare,straining to encourage.I’m Exasperated.With dampened spirits denying the truth.(there is no way to ease this)Anguish.I’m here.The rigid body,the fragile health,it horrifies me.I want to hold on to him.Why don’t we have answers to cancers?These screens flash death.30 / Blackwater Review

(there are flaws in contentment)Ahead and aboveis a river ofperse currents and trout.A world where leavesembrace tense surface andstonesglint like brassy gemsalong the bottom.No buildings here,no manmade chemicalsor human consequences.(the sheets were left undone)Such things he questioned.“Is there a reasonTo keep the play goingOnce the curtain has fallen?”A life has an endAnd he finished his last actWithout grace.I breathe his pastLike a hospital bill livedhis nightstand.“Leukemia was it?Or some other illness?I forget.I buried his death seedin the red mud,I wandered the cliff ofunknown legends,and I cast asidea waterway tooncoming oblivionlike I deserved no restor peace for mourning.I saw the play end,Breathing like those tubesThat feed his arm,One last heavy sigh.Schrekengast / 31

Two Parchments: Arm-Wrestling with myFatherReid TuckerHow red is the heatInside this unwritten arm of mine,Erect on the tile of the kitchen bar?My skin is paraffinAgainst the tile, against him.He looks at my face,My bare eyes cut deep downWith the cold of his youth, gone now and brownLike his own eyes and arms:His parchment of dust and the sun.He made me for himself,And the palm in his clutchIs like his own, my body his cropGrown from the earth he plowed.I am the fruit of his blood.Like Moses in SinaiI strain against him, the rock of his will,Disobeying even in the act of striving;And I see him split wide,The water in his knit eyebrows.For with a dull crackThe hollow back of his handIs mired in the valley of tile grout,And I can hardly be proudBecause what I’ve done to him-Was for me, myself-And through my own strength, the heatIn my ice-cut eyes, through the unwritten life,Of my flesh, I have beaten him.And he did not let me win.32 / Blackwater Review

Selfish, Stupid and WillfulLily BrunsWe both know it’s a bad idea, we both know nothinggood can come of this, we both know we’re going to feel terriblein the morning. But we both know what selfish and selfdestructivemoods we’re in, and we both know we just want todo something stupid and willful.There are certain guys in this world that I am undeniablyattracted to. It doesn’t matter what, when, where or why,but if the situation arises, I won’t be able to resist him. Evenwhen I know it’s a bad idea. Even though I know I’ll regret it bymorning.He falls under that category. It’s all well and fine whenhe’s safely coupled off. Then I can resist because of the sheerfact that he’s off limits--I respect that. But what happens whenhe’s all of a sudden single again?I was startled when he announced his bitter toast tobeing single again. I had to chug that beer to cover up myridiculous reaction. The thing is, I know he noticed my reactionand purposefully took note.I thought I was fine, I was so over him, but when thepossibility arises I can’t help but reconsider. Especially when hesaid it right in front of me. I can see past the little games andcharades. We’re both loosened up, not drunk, but one couldn’tsay sober, and out of the blue he suggests going over to myhouse. Pretend as we might that it’s all innocent, everybodyknows otherwise. Even if I deny it and I won’t acknowledge toanyone, not even myselfOnce we’re home, he’s safely in bed upstairs. I’m nestledunder my own covers. But I know we’re both thinkingthe same thing. Is this really it? Are we really not going to doanything about it? We’re still in denial even when I tell him togo ahead and come downstairs, that bed is gross and uncomfortable.We’re still in denial when he’s there lying next to me.We’re still in denial even when he takes his shirt off because it’sBruns / 33

too warm in my room. I’m still in denial as we’re “keeping eachother warm.” I’m still in denial when I’m nestled into his shoulders.And then our lips meet. How? I don’t know, but after thatI can’t deny.I stop and ask what’s going on. We both know it’s a badidea, we both know nothing good can come of this, we bothknow we’re going to feel terrible in the morning. But we bothknow what selfish and self-destructive moods we’re in, and weboth know we just want to do something stupid and willful.34 / Blackwater Review

Winter ForestDonovan Murdorfleavesfallinglives spenttossed asidedown to dirtto mulchto the roachesfrom glorious heightsand brilliant greento the ground belowin brownest rotthey fallin grace yesbut sadlythey descendlet goand brought by the coldest windto lie, stillwitheredforgottenMurdorf / 35

TidesDenise HarriganI spent the night with Poseidoncalling back the last ten years.I carved my story in the shore,raking my fingers through siltand sand. I made my stand on aslipping sandy foundation,hoping the tide would conquer me.Pain washed over each image withevery wave he crashed on the beach.I cried to him “There’s no escape fromthese memories I can’t let go.”With each surge and swell hechallenged me to relinquish my rage,leaving my fury on the shore.Each recollection that surfacedbefore me drowned by salty kissesstinging tear-spent eyes.His foamy white tendrils and silky coolfingers soothed me through the night.On the crisp wind he whispered,“Balance, my dear,With every ebb there is a flow.”36 / Blackwater Review

Float AwayAlisa SelfTear up these old photographsThe people smiling back are strangers nowI can almost find the humor in it allBut it’s no laughing matter, not right nowAnd for the first timeYou get creative, drawling me inWith well rehearsed, beautiful linesThis time through, I have prepared mineAnd I can break you like you’ve broken meYou’re eyes get wide, like it wasn’t evidentWe’ve been slowly losing pieces of ourselvesYou seem to forget everythingWhile my head keeps spinningAll the colors bleed—it’s just black and whiteJust like difference between usAnd you were never rightAnd you were never honestSo just do what you do,Just turn your head awaySelf / 37

Through Boarded Windows and Open DoorsMaegan HartleyUp through the trees in the mountainsBoredom causing the curious to wanderOut past the boundaries, where no other child playsLike a bee, marking the way to its next flowerFinding a deserted homeRise in the rubble, art and peaceFind their way to each other in this one placeThe heart knows that inspiration flowsOnly in those curious enough to find itDirt gathering on the floorDust crawling up the armsStill she dances,Swirling about her as she twirls through the thick humid airWith the smell of lilacs and mildew hovering about herEnergy flows through her arms, through the roomSo silent, so loud her actions speak to her soulShe internalizes the beauty of strength, inspirationNo one to watch her but her shadow on the wall38 / Blackwater Review

Spring BeesacrylicJayme Chatterton39

Duality, The Contortionistmixed mediaHolly Dowden40

Multi-Grain Chip on My ShoulderoilSara Foraker41

Roses on FirewatercolorSandra Clay Harrison42

Ruwachdyed silkAnita Hester43

UntitledoilDishonda Hopkins44

Red Tidemixed mediaSharon James45

ShelfphotographDanielle Kelly46

ShadowspastelJoan Langham47

UntitledphotographJesse Magallan48

UntitledoilMelissa McSwain49

Hidden Weaponsclay/rakuMaria B. Morekis50

Editordigital imageJames Melvin51

The Pooldigital imageMaurice L. Price52

Turmoil WithinacrylicStacy Davis-Tsui53

From the StreetwatercolorMelba Thompson54

Happy AgainDaniel BakerIries awoke at 3:30 a.m. with phonetic C, crows andbells, clanging in his mind’s ear in concert. His eyes unclenchedabruptly; there in the black was a crane, its reed-like neckcurved into the shape of the sound. A cat’s tail dangled from thecrane’s beak, and a crown made of frogs croaked atop its head.The crane unfolded its wings and began to writhe, and Iriesheard the same ringing strings of the tokos, the shakuhachi’ssoft shrill, and the great pounding of the odaiko that stirred thebird. Bewitched by the music, he leaped from the bed to the centerof the room, joining in dance with the crane. Over book andchair they went, bounding round and round. Then they wereupon the old, oaken dresser, dashing it beneath their feet.As spontaneously as the music had happened, it ended;and there, from the lithe throat of the crane came an etherealvoice in song; it sounded like rain, and laughter, and mourningin unison. Iries felt as if he would cry, as if he would shriek,but he lay on the floor where he had fallen after the music hadceased, timid and huddled, like a toad when touched. After whatIries thought so little time, the crane closed its beak, doubledits wings, and bent its noble, narrow head downward towardIries’ own. It then pecked at his mouth, kissing him, he thought.It rose and flew through his eastward window, though it wasnot open, leaving the cat’s tail on his pillow in the curve of C.He was roused in the morning by the alarm clock heregularly set but never meant to wake by. He found himselfperched, like a pigeon on a wire, upon the edge of the chair infront of his secretary, his legs tucked tightly under the rest ofhim. The computer was still on, and the research he would needthat day unfinished. He snatched his only good pen and droveit into one of the many stacks of sheet-paper on the desk, fracturingthe end of the pen. It was then he observed the slendersketch, on that same sheet, of an extraordinary crane, circledwith a C. The escapade of the previous night swirled in his skull.Baker / 55

Iries collected himself. It was another dream. His head achedseverely; it always did after a dream.Professor Helix would not be pleased. This wouldmake the second time Iries had been late that week. He hadtyped a bit more on the paper that was expected that dayand printed it off. Things would be much worse if he did notbring something; Professor Helix required it. He had thengone out to the drive only to find someone had unpluggedhis car. Iries took Thom’s bicycle. Thom and Iries shared thesame toilet; their dormitories were adjacent to it on eitherside. Thom’s major was art history. Ireis knew he wouldn’tbe attending class; he was certain. Though Thom did notneed drink to encourage an absence, it did take him a day ofnursing to recover from a night when he had been. Unfortunatelyfor Thom, his nurse had left him some weeks before,and he was intent on displaying his grief, caught deeply inan alcoholic stupor.Iries looked at his watch as he propped the bicycleagainst the tree nearest the entrance to Dobbins’ Hall.Dobbins’ Hall was home to all classical interest here at theUniversity of Massachusetts. It was 8:20, and he was 20minutes late. This meant of course that he was 30 to 35minutes overdue, according to Professor Helix. Iries pacedrapidly through the main corridor. He arrived at the smalloffice that Professor Helix gave him a corner of while assistingwith research, grading, and the like. He did notknock but quickly opened the door with the gaudy, gold letteringabove it, which declared, DR. HELIX, PROFESSOROF EASTERN RELIGION AND FOLKLORE.“Mr. Ethein, you are late.” Professor Helix was sure togive gravity to every word.“Yes, Sir, I know. I’ve tried to…”“It is not like you to be late, Ethein, but never mind.Don’t let it happen again, though. There were many othercandidates capable of serving as my assistant, but I choseyou. Please do not disappoint me.”Iries inwardly scoffed at the idea of there being a line56 / Blackwater Review

of applicants for such a position. “I’m sorry, Sir. I wasn’t ableto quite fin…” A second time Iries was interrupted. He hadgrown used to such treatment, however.“I expect you completed the work I gave you yesterday.” As ifto prompt an answer, he crooked his head forward, his eyes protrudingbehind his glasses and below his brow.“There’s a little that still needs going over,” Iries said hurriedly,making his way to the small desk in the corner of the office.“As long as it’s finished by the scheduled time. You knowit must be submitted today,” Professor Helix said austerely. “Ah,Ethein, there’s nothing the matter, is there?” Helix was hesitant.“You have not seemed yourself this week.”“What does the crane symbolize, in folklore, I mean?”“Well,” his head tilted upward and his eyes rolled, probinghis thoughts, “the crane can be a harbinger of good fortune,increased fertility, and in some cultures even death. Why doyou ask?”“Oh, I’ve been dreaming.” Once more, the images of theprevious night liberated Iries’ thoughts.“Having nightmares involving cranes?” Professor Helix’sexpression was mocking.“No, not nightmares, only dreams,” Iries said. “I apologizefor interrupting your work, Doctor. I’d best get back tomine as well if you want this on time.” He tapped the documenton his desk with his pencil. Iries was sure to keep his eyeson his research. He wished he had not said anything; Helix’sinterest was now aroused. Helix fancied himself something ofan astrologer. Iries was not alone in knowing this unfortunatefact. Iries could sense Helix’s intent gaze, knowing he wantednothing at that moment but for Iries to look up and ask him topresage the fate which Iries would be soon to meet.Iries pretended to be hard at writing the final pageof his research, entitled “Emblems of Superstition and theirInfluence on Folk-cultures.” His head was beginning to acheagain, and he felt strangely nauseated. The visions of the cranebegan to assail his mind; the pain became worse. Violatingthe stillness of the room was a faint thump. It started to formBaker / 57

a rhythm, mounting in volume and intensity. Iries glanced atProfessor Helix, but he did not seem to hear the great drumsgrowing louder. Iries began to sweat, and as a bead spottedthe paper on his desk, he heard all the music of the night thecrane came.“Iries, you look very red, and you appear to be perspiring.”Iries stared at Professor Helix; his glasses were assuming theshape of the letter A. Iries continued to gaze as Helix’s ears drewupward and his chin jutted into an acute angle. His mouthedstretched to either side of his face. His features resembled, flawlessly,a capital A, turned on its axis. He looked like a carnivaldemon. Iries stood up swiftly, knocking his chair aside.“Is something bothering you, Ethein?” he asked, as theteeth before the anxious voice began to alter, morphing intostatuettes of renowned avatars. One slipped loose, tumblingacross the desk, and down to the floor.“I have to leave.” Iries advanced toward the door, stoppingonly to acquire the diminutive Buddha ahead of ProfessorHelix’s desk.“Ethain, Mr. Ethian, wait!” Iries rushed to the hall’smain access, suppressing the urge to dance to the active air,ringing in his ears. He mounted his borrowed bicycle, rode forhis dormitory, and thought on A.Iries arrived at his abode in little more than fifteen minutes.He threw the bicycle aside on the rack near the door to theflight of stairs. He entered the passageway on the second floor,counting the 36 steps to the third door on the right, Room 111.He was calmer now. Thom was sitting on a stool that braced thedoor to Room 113. The only sound in the habitually commotion-filledfoyer was the ring of Thom’s guitar; he was playing“Subterranean Homesick Blues.” Thom was devoted towardsfew things; the guitar was one of those things.“You take my bike, man?” He continued to play, notlooking up.“Yeah, sorry I didn’t ask. Somebody unplugged my caragain; I had to go to work.”“It’s cool, man. That’s the price you pay for savin’ the58 / Blackwater Review

environment, probably some Republican prick, goin’ round unpluggin’electric-cars. As if suckin’ and fuckin’ the earth wasn’tenough.” Thom looked up now, and the tendrils of his hair tumbleddown his face.“No, I don’t think so, Thom. It’s likely it was an accident.There are a few drunks that sleep in that parking-garage.” Iriesenjoyed these conversations with Thom, always extraneous.They comforted him somehow, making him feel like he was hidden,like a duck must feel before it is flushed by a dog fromthe brush. Everything was upset now, though. The sensation ofambiguity was no longer there. He was flying clear of the bush,and the dog was howling.“I wasn’t down there last night, man. I was up here.”Thom stopped playing now. “Why don’t they pronounce it ‘car,’you know, with a long A but the same hard C sound. That waythey could have electric-‘car,’ like to show the owners care forthe world around him.” Thom bore the same, awed expressionwhenever he thought he was being particularly profound.“I’m not sure, Thom. Perhaps you should ask themsometime.” Thom laughed.“Listen, Thom, I have to go lie down. I’m not feeling well.The day’s been really weird.” Iries touched Thom’s shoulder.Thom nodded in farewell. Stalin, Thom’s cat, ran through thedoor’s partial opening and under Thom’s chair. He was tailless.Iries walked through the entry to his room and left, unfasteningthe door he had always locked.Iries turned on his computer and sat down before it afterdeciding he could not sleep. He opened a poem he had started aweek ago. The title was “By Bit and Peace.” He had been compilinga short book of antiwar-themed poems for some time now,since 2002. The tingling of inspiration began to re-ignite. Hewrote, but after moment it faded. He kept a booklet of crossword-puzzlesfor just such times, in a drawer of his study. Theywere listed in order of difficulty. There was one left that had“novice” above it. He started the puzzle.Thirty-three minutes had passed and Iries was still occupiedwith the crossword. He had less than half of it completed.Baker / 59

His thoughts were assembling once more; he felt he could write now.He wanted to fill in one last blank, 14, down. The cue read, “Theinverse of the twenty-first.” Even though he was not good at crossword-puzzles,it irritated him every time he was baffled. He went tothe bookcase alongside his study, returned, and sat back down.There was nothing about “the inverse of the twenty-first”in his Comprehensive Dictionary to all Crossword-puzzles. Hereleased his grip, letting the book fall to the floor. He pickedthe booklet of puzzles back up. All of his inserted letters hadbeen extracted from their allotted words, creating a large Nin the puzzle’s box. Iries rapidly shut the booklet and his eyes,holding both clamped for several seconds. He reopened themtogether, the N was there. He ripped out the page, walked tohis bed and collapsed. The music had started for a third time.He pulled something from under his head; it was the rigid cat’stail. He put it on his nightstand, next to the page and the statuette.Iries fell asleep to beautiful music.Iries awoke at 6:59 a.m. He sensed a slight pressure onhis chest, and it was difficult to breath. He tilted his head upand saw a stuffed, pink rabbit sitting on top of him. It was thesame rabbit he had as child; he had taken it with him to collegeto remind him of his mother. It stayed in the closet from thefirst day.The rabbit’s ears had been torn off, the fibrous paddingpuffed out. It looked like it had earmuffs on. The ears themselveswere bound together in the shape of a cross. The rabbitbore these on its shoulder, holding the cross-ear steady withone bulging arm. It also had a crown on its head, thumbtacksfixed together with ribbon and tape.“You’re Jesus?” he asked earnestly. Iries was willing tobelieve anything at this point. The rabbit tottered forward tenderly,and offered the cross to Iries. He took it. The rabbit directedIries’ gaze to the nightstand. All of the objects had beenstructured. The cat’s tail first, the image of the avatar, andthen the page. Iries placed the cross at the end. “Cant,” he saidquestioningly. The rabbit nodded in affirmation. It tripped offthe bed and returned to the closet.60 / Blackwater Review

Iries wearily slumped to the restroom, the same affectingmusic rumbling in his ear. He put on the water, letting it rununtil it warmed. As his wet hands slid over his face, he thoughtthat he must be insane, but he was not frightened. He stared athimself in the mirror. His straight auburn hair hung about hisears, his 5’7 frame looked fatigued, but his usually sullen eyesshone with a gray illumination, and the tattoo on his left armof a girl he had wish for, more vibrant. He had seen that girl somany times, in the library, on the way to a class.Iries had never gotten a tattoo on his arm, or anywhereelse. He watched his reflection as that same tattooed armguided his hand’s likeness to his corduroy’s pocket, pullingout a pack of cigarettes, removing one, and then replacing thepack. His likeness lighted the cigarette with a lighter it hadgotten from the other pocket, put it to its lips and drew indeeply. Iries had not moved the entire time. The water was stillrunning. He filled his cupped hands, dousing his face anothertime. He looked up; his reflection was not bent over as he was.He noticed the same music playing in his head.“Are you crazy?” The likeness spoke with a strong Brooklynaccent. “Why do you keep lookin’ at me like that?”“I believe I am, yes. Have you come to give me anotherletter?” Iries’ voice trembled. He knew only someone truly madcould see themselves while talking to themselves.“Good tune, huh?” His image bobbed his head andsnapped his fingers. Iries did not respond. His image was nolonger keeping the rhythm. It was very still and frowning.“Look, I’m just s’ppose to tell you, ok. ‘Re,’ that’s all you need, gotit. Oh, and get some rest, you look like hell.”“‘Re’? Cant-re?”“No, you moron, recant. As in ‘re’-cant, all right? Say it.”“Recant,” Iries whispered. He could not refuse the smilethat swelled over his face.“Recant what, exactly?” Iries felt somehow elated. He wasbewildered too, like a fish must feel when its mouth engulfs adaggling, defenseless cut of flesh, puzzling at the prick in itscheek as its towed to the surface.Baker / 61

“You an’t happy Iries. Look at me. Do I look happy?”The image pulled down its left eyelid, better revealing a bloodshoteye. “Things an’t goin’ good for us. You got to leave it, allof it.”Today had been the first day Iries had been happy ina very long time. He had not realized how much he missed ituntil now. He nodded, and whispered, “Everything.” He packedtwo sets of clothes and what money he had into a small duffleand walked out into the hall. He left a note onThom’s door, sayinghe’d caught a train for Maine, and intended to remain. Heknew Thom would like it. He’d probably write a song about it.62 / Blackwater Review

What is Black Love?Jzolandria WilliamsWhat is black love? What is self love? I see the black persuasion,the edifying factor of my existence dwindling away to satisfy aworld that encompasses no more respect for our presence, ourlegacy, our cause, our contributions.They tell us that our boys should not stand so broad, with theirhats turned backwards, with their pants baggy and their shoesunlaced. They tell us that our black men should exemplify anEnglish sophistication in their dialect and abandon “slang.”They tell us that braids, twist, dreads, plaits, and afros are nota professional outlook on what capitalism defines as being professionallymarketable.If our women’s rumps are not full, and her hair is not kinked upthen she is not the true representation of being black. This stereotypeis a misconception of black love. They move so boldlyaway from our obvious reality, to define what they think ourreality is.A black woman willHave no hairShe will go bald and showcase that globe of knowledge andlegacyHer hair may stand free and natural to give us a time portalback to our beginningShe may wear her hair straight and long flowing to intensifythe beauty that is overlookedHer hair may be atheistically twist, braided, corn rolled, dreadedto intertwine and clasp onto our true identityOur black man may wear his pants low with a rim of underwearDoes this state whether or not he has great character?What is truly being gangster, thuggish, gutter, or ghetto?Williams / 63

Are not all black people raised in different settings that profilea smoother or rougher brilliance?If a man chooses to say “dat” rather than “that,” does this meanhe is less intelligent than you are I?If he decides to wear a Malcolm X shirt down a city street ratherthan Hollister, is he truly acting like a communist or “homebasedterrorist?”People let us grab onto the light. Some shall say that God grantedus daylight. Some say some scientific reasoning, Buddha, ormaybe Prometheus? Wherever you stand in your beliefs, whichpossibly stand in the black arena, let us find self love throughself awareness.64 / Blackwater Review

The Amniotic EggAshley SchreckengastThe walls all take onthe same tone anymore.Some stiff sort of white,sterile and soaked in such asullen aftertaste.Uncertain of my barriers,these limbs have often longedto break out. Stretch.Stretch these linesdrawn around me so I bleed…a blotch of colorI’m suspended as.Somewhere, my breath lingerslonging to hug airand blend into the windamong the other wordsof knowledge we’ve long forgotten.But speech is but a bubbletrapped in the fluidof my present lifespan.Childhood is but a shell.The solid that makes survivingobtainable.It curtained off a windowto the violencethat resulted in me.I am but a capturedchaos. Cells multiplying,combining, and forming tospread the branchesof society.The society of ocularshas formed mentally.Schreckengast / 65

And my physical blindnessis but a peak to my sight.Somewhere, my hand pushesagainst a sanity thatincubates me.A door handle shakes,the wood splintersaround the hingessomehow crudely opening a dooras the hard exterior cracks.A woman stands before meand with an electric flashproduces my identity.Gute morgen.Achtzehn Jahreund schließlich lebend.**Good morning. Eighteen years and finally living.66 / Blackwater Review

Wish for RemembranceDaniel BakerI think the slain care little whether they sleep or rise again—AeschylusThey sleep in hills and holes,in earthen cells, in capsules of stone.Captives, detained in deteriorationby those they once walked with,those they loved. There are some,with fetid flesh that teems with worms,fed by their rotting corpse;these are the newly dead,and the reek of their afterbirthstill is draped about them.There are others, whose parchedand brittle frame has lain so longwithin the soil that there is little leftbut a forlorn echo of remembrancein the hollow of their skull, consoledwholly by warmth like winter’s breath.The deceased are caught in a perpetual dream;when I dream I hear their murmurson the storm, frail yet unyielding,like many minor waters mounting a flood.The words are unintelligible; they worry me,reverberating with remorse and misery.They are moaned laments for love,for loathe, for lives unfulfilled.A shrill plea shocks the ear abovethe many whispers; it can be heardin the roll of the waves, in the beat of the rain,in the rustle of the forest, insistently in urges,“do not forget.”Baker / 67

In truth, the dead do not beseech the living.Numbed from drinking the waters of Lethe,they now drift on tides of oblivion, not troubledby hopes, doubts and divinities. This hushed,voiceless speech is mine, and it reachesa scream with the death of every day.I think, too soon, I may be number among them:nameless shadows. It is brevity…do not forget.*First place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial PoetryContest, 200768 / Blackwater Review

On How He Hopes His Hair Isn’t Too ShortShannon E. HorningHe ran his hand through his short, fuzzy black hair. Hewasn’t sure if she would like his new hair-do. The “Fasten Seatbelt”sign flickered off as the airplane jerked to a stop at the gate. Hecould feel the sweat pool forming between the pectoral musclesof his chest dribble down to his navel as he shifted in his seat.He straightened his light brown tie, just a nervous gesture becausehe knew it was perfectly in place. He twirled the colorfulpins on his uniform out of nervousness. He fished for his Chapstickand applied some to his cracked, sun burnt lips. He hopedshe wouldn’t mind too much when they kissed again.“Fifteen months, four days, eleven hours, and twenty…”he glanced at his watch, “…six minutes since I had to watch hersilhouette walk down that terminal, through those gates andout of sight,” he thought to himself heatedly, as he rememberedthe final boarding call reluctantly pulling him towardsthe attendant who accepted his ticket and shooed him downthe corridor.She was the bulk of all his thoughts during his miserablestay in Iraq. When he tried to escape from his life as a marine,alone at night in that desert with the sounds of patrolling vehiclesand endless rioting filling the streets, migrating towardshis room like cannon balls into the hollow cells of an abandonedbeehive, it was she who soothed his anxieties enough to catch afew hours’ rest so to be able to succumb to another day beneaththe merciless, penetrating sun.As he slept, he dreamt of their one bedroom apartmentwith her silly daisy stickers on the front door. Inside, he sawthe endless piles of knick-knacks stacked high on every levelsurface she could find. Pictures of her original photographyhung in their living room, along with his ridiculous Rocky postershanging proudly right next to them.“Everything of yours matters to me, and everything isequally beautiful in our home, sweet babe,” she had told himHorning / 69

when he asked if he could tack them up. And he knew she trulybelieved that.He would follow the hazy dream images as she worked onoverdue papers and make-up exams, playing her favorite RyanAdams album loud enough to fill up the empty, unoccupied spacehe had created when he left her. He saw her fiddling with his dogtag that she wore around her long, elegant neck as she eyed thesimple stone that rested on top of her ring finger amorously.He savored these images. She kept him focused andcentered and she sincerely saved him from many nights ofthreatening terrors and raging anxieties. He had maintainedhis sanity and was now coming home to prove it to her.He gathered his things as the other travelers madetheir way out of the stuffy plane and out towards their owndestinations. He straightened his brown tie again and poppedan orange-flavored Tic-Tac between his teeth. He hoped shewould like his new haircut. He knew she would.70 / Blackwater Review

Late NightRob MoradaI have her. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s mine. I cantell from the way she runs her finger along the lip of her drink;game over.The club is one of those generic pre-packaged clubs thatwomen seem to go nuts over. They have a second rate band playingsecond rate cover songs, trading out every hour with whathas to be the most unoriginal DJ in the history of clubs. I guessthat’s something; at least something about the place is A-list.The place is just now starting to empty. They should be callinglast call any minute now, and not a moment too soon becauseif I have to hear “I‘m In Love With A Stripper” one more time, Ithink I‘m gonna be in love with playing in traffic.The girl’s name is Emily. She’s pretty, in an I-want-tosleep-with-herkind of way. Shoulder length hair the color of thecherry wood bar top in front of us, tight little body covered inan outfit that looks like it was painted on, and a dash of frecklesacross a perfect face is definitely a recipe to catch my attention.We’ve been here a good three hours now, drinking anddancing. Guys get drinking, but dancing; dancing is one of thosethings that most guys just don’t get, and I don’t get what’s sohard to understand. It’s the quickest route from point A, theclub, to point B, her bed. It‘s not even hard. For the most partyou just have to stand there like a statue while the girl dancesaround you.“One more,” she says in a light voice. The kind of voicethat says she doesn’t have a care in the world.“I don’t know. I mean you‘re already putty in my hands,”I answer, letting my most disarming smile play across my lips.“Come on. Please,” she says, letting an exaggerated sadpuppy dog look take over her face.“All right.” I lean over to whisper in her ear. The light perfumeshe’s wearing is now tinged with a hint of Crown Royal.“You know if you were a booger, I’d pick you first.”Morada / 71

This causes her to lean back and erupt in the biggest surge ofgiggles yet. The movement is almost too much for her, and she hasto grab the bar to regain her balance. Watching her is almost enoughto make the whole thing feel less than sporting. I mean, I could havegotten her into bed dead sober; this just makes it too easy.“What?” she asks when she notices me smiling at her.“Nothing.”“No what?” She lays her hand on mine.“Just thinking that we’ve been here for a few hours now,and between the band and the DJ, we must have heard a fewdozen songs. And not a single one has been anywhere near asperfect or pretty as you laughing.”Her smile gets a little bigger, and she turns a little red.Her other hand moves down to rest on my knee.“It’s a little late. You wanna get out of here?” she says.As we walk out to my car, she’s leaning on me with herhead on my shoulder; her two hands intertwined with one ofmine. My car stands out pretty well in the parking lot; it’s a brightyellow Corvette, just washed and waxed this morning. To be honestthe only time I ever bother washing it is before a date.I lead her around to the passenger side to open her door,and she stops to kiss me. I have this steadfast belief that at somepoint in high school girls are required to take Sloppy Drunk Kissing101; they sit around in class, probably sometime betweengym and lunch, get all hammered and make out. Emily doesnothing to dissuade me of it.The drive back to her place is filled with the sound ofher skimming through my MP3 player prattling on about whoshe loves and who she hates. Her hand is attached to mine asif by Super Glue.We get to her building, and I walk her up to her doorperfectgentlemen. I even have the good taste to act surprisedwhen she invites me in.A funny thought flits across my mind as she works to unlockthe door. It’s about that old wise tale of how monsters canhurt you only if you invite them into your home.I met Emily at the supermarket where I do most of my72 / Blackwater Review

shopping. She was in line behind me. I had a basket full of ChefBoyardee Raviolis. I love the damn things, have since I was akid. Growing up, they were dinner almost every night. Mom alwaysmade sure that there was something in the house I couldmake for myself.“So is that like from Atkins or something?” she said to me.Confidence attracts me to women more than anythingelse. Not just any confidence either, but the confidence that cancome only from the beautiful, from those who have always hadeverything handed to them. Nothing makes me go all gooeymore than banging a hottie who thinks she can get whatevershe wants.“What? Pre-processed beef and fake meat sauce. Atkinshas nothing on the Chef.”Now one thing that I know more than anything else inthis world is that a first conversation with a girl is like a KungFu showdown. There are kicks, blocks, dodges, and punches.You always have to stay one step ahead and not let them outmaneuveryou.“Oh, I see. Thus the incredible shape he’s in.” She throwsa jab from the left.“Hey, round. Best shape there is. Anything good isround– donuts, cakes, pies.” Block with my right, throw a leftof my own.“Well, aren’t you the hypocrite. I mean,”– She looks meup and down –“you don’t exactly look like you subscribe to thattheory.” Interesting. She decides to duck and surprise me witha leg sweep.“Don’t be fooled. Underneath is a fat man just crying toget out.” I almost get knocked down but manage to recover.“I’m Emily,” she says, kicking high, looking for a weakness.I shake her hand. It’s smooth and cool to the touch, no ring.“Josh.” We slowly circle each other, our battle far fromover. “So you critique your boyfriend’s diet like this.” I must begetting rusty. She saw that kick from a mile away.“No boyfriend.” She just swats it away.“So then you’ll go out with me Friday night,” I say, com-Morada / 73

pletely surprising her with a roundhouse kick to the head. Fromthe look of surprise on her face, I can tell it’s a hit, and I knowthe answer before she even says it.It may seem very strange to ask a girl out within a minuteof meeting her, but that’s why it worked. You see, most menbelieve there is some grand mystique to women. Women areactually painfully simple to figure out. They’re crazy. I knowit may seem complicated, but really, there’s a simplicity to itthat’s beautiful. They don’t know what they want, only thatwhatever it is, they have to have it. All you have to do is pick upcertain clues and become something that they think they want.Because to get it, they’ll accept any amount of strangeness.Emily was even worse. Just from the way she struck upa conversation with me, I could tell she was used to getting herway. Not many people flirt with a complete stranger out of nowhere--toohigh a fear of rejection. Girls like Emily don’t knowrejection, so there was nothing to fear.Friday night came and I was surprised to find myselfin a part of town that wasn’t exactly home to the pillars of thecommunity. Broken glass on the ground and a few abandonedbuildings, the background of my childhood and memories ofbusted knuckles and bloody noses. What was a girl like Emilydoing living here? A place like this beats you down prettyquick. No way the confident girl I met at the grocery store wasfrom here. Emily answered the door on the first knock, andfrom the quick view of the interior of her place, I had my answer.Nice furniture, neat; it seemed little Emily was a poorlittle rich girl slumming it up, maybe so that years from nowshe could tell herself she knew how the other half lived for afew months. She was all smiles as we walked down to my car.As I leaned over to open her door for her, it was easy to seewhy. It seemed she had started the party a little early. She wasscented with a slight touch a Crown; anyone else would neverhad noticed. Maybe she just felt the need to loosen up a littlebit before a date, or then again maybe my first instinct of herbeing a party girl was dead on. I didn’t give it much thoughtbecause the smell of it, like the apartment building, sent me74 / Blackwater Review

ack a few years, back to thoughts of Mom.I come from a small town. One just big enough to havea poor part, and just small enough where everyone knew themore colorful characters in the town. My mother was one ofthese colorful characters. I must have been seven or eight whenI found out just how colorful.My whole life up until that point was normal, well, atleast normal to me. Looking back it’s kind of funny how I usedto think everyone’s mom got visited by the same men fromtown every week. I don’t know what was going through my headevery time Mr. Sam, Casey, Jim, Jake, Larry, Bob, and “insertname here” came over to visit for an hour or so; I had grown upwith it, so to me it was normal. Then came the day I got senthome from school early. A few of the older kids decided to giveme a little higher education.Mom picked me up from school in the only car we everhad, a beat up, rust colored Beetle. Her eyes were red and thatsmell clung to the car, Crown Royal. We got home and walkedup the steps to our small apartment, and as soon as we got in,she started weeping. I didn’t know what I did that made her soupset, so I said the only thing that came to mind.“Sorry, Mom.”“For what, baby?” she said, wiping her eyes.“I don’t know….fighting?”“No, sweetheart,” she said, wrapping her arms aroundme. The red wool of her sweater was rough, and I could feel itscratching my cheek. “You didn’t do nothing wrong.”I could feel her warm tears running down the side ofmy face.“So what did those kids say to you today?” She didn’tsay those little shits or fuckers, like most would say in that situation;she said kids. My entire life I can’t remember a singletime my mom cussed in front of me.“They said you were a whore.”“You know what that is, baby?”“Um…..a girl who kisses men for money?” I said. Thisjust made her cry harder.Morada / 75

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she said, kissing my forehead, and rockingme against her.Hearing her cry like that scared me. I wanted her to stop, tobe better, and in the logic that only a kid can possess, I found a way. Ipushed myself away from her and ran into my room.“Hang on, sweetie. I want to talk to you,” she called after me.Tearing through my closet, I found what I was looking for,broke it open and came back out to her.“What do you got there?” she asked.I carried over a handful of change and a few crunched up dollarbills to her.“See, now you can just be my whore,” I said.That’s the only time I’ve ever said that to a girl and gotten asmile and a kiss.“You thirsty?” she says, smiling.“Sure.” In my head I’m already coming up with my excuse toget out of here later.The apartment is put together well. Nice furniture, big woodencoffee table and end tables. Unlit candles are scattered around,scenting the place with fake lilac.She comes back into the room holding two half-full wineglasses.“You know, you must be feeling pretty confident about now,”she says, sitting down next to me.“About what?”“You know what,” she says, putting down her glass and leaningover to kiss my neck.Her lips are soft and warm, and the scent of her hair fills me.After a moment or two she pulls away, a serious look in her eyes.“I don’t want you to think that I’m always like this,” she says.“Like what?”“You know . . . a slut. I mean, you’re like the first guy to ever bein this apartment . . . it’s just that . . . I never do anything. Like go outand just have fun. You know.”Looking down into her eyes, I suddenly start to feel very tired.Weary would really be a better word. It’s really no wonder. I mean, Iworked all day and now have been out with her all night. At this point76 / Blackwater Review

all I really want to do is go home and sleep in my own bed.“You know. I think I’m gonna get out of here,” I say.“You don’t have to go,” she says.“Early day tomorrow. But I’ll call you, okay?”I hurry out the door and head home to my empty apartment.Morada / 77

AgesSidney SpeerThe years spin faster, but I do not.I am bleached as desert boneswith cracked teeth and empty holes,a memory of my eyesas I remember seeing them.I am parched as salt valley.My skin hangs like birch barkand dry tears tumblethrough lines left by my laughter,as I remember hearing it.And still I yearn.The years spin faster, but I do not.I trod like a broken horse, headbent down, muzzled by a feedbag chained to the harness,ears pricked by the scent of the barnas I remember smelling it.I know the sound of memories.They skip from my brainlike static on a speaker, half a name,a sentence fragment, familiar voicesas I remember knowing them.And still I yearn.The years spin faster, but I do not.I am a child waiting for summer,but it is taking so longand I am scaredthat it has already startedand I’ve already forgottenthat I no longer rememberThat the years spin faster, but I do not.78 / Blackwater Review

ObservationKyra CandellThe art of decision makingIs an acquired skillTo take a step, a leap, even a tip-toe isDauntingWe move, we guessAnd at times we see our errorsBut often we blindly treadThrough paths in murky forestsAs astute willows hang above usWe see fossils of leaves decayedAncient branches stained with sunBut we don’t pause to marvelWe take no break to noticeAnd the path continues onThe veins painted on the leavesKnots deformed within old rootsReceive no second glanceStubbornly we stare pastAnd just keep walkingCandell / 79

There’s a Fountain Flowing Deep and Widebut You Can’t Seem to Find ItAdam DuckworthHey, Preacher!With your chubby little legs runningnowhere, with your perfect beautiful mouthspeaking gibberish,you’ve got a lot of nerve to stand there behind your pulpit.But you hold it like it’s a crutch.Your knees shake while your backlike your wordsstays rigid.The fire in your voice,so loud like Elijah’s whirlwind,appearing to be stronglike Samson holding the jawbone of an assdoesn’t have enough forceto even blow out a birthday candle.Remember this, Preacher,as you kindle your fire and you bring out your brimstoneas you condemn Ellen and Mickeyand the whole state of Massachusettswhile ignoring the third world countries in Africa,I cringe when I think of you.I cry when I think about the things you’ve donein the name of a Godthat cringes and cries more than I ever will.But most of all,I pity youwith your chubby little cheeks huffing,and puffing,and trying to blow that brick house down,with your toddler-like legs,80 / Blackwater Review

unning a race made for the Olympics,because you’re weak.Because you’re fragile.Because so many people over so many yearshave put you on a pedestalwaiting to be knocked over while you’re holding onto just enough rope to hang yourself with.Because you’re praying to God that no one looks behind thecurtain.Not even yourself.Duckworth / 81

82 / Blackwater ReviewBirthday SurpriseSara Richardson“Maybe you left it on the balcony,” said Tonnie. “It’sprobably right in front of you. Sure you aren’t wearing it?”“No,” Adelina said, exasperated. “I know I took it off. Iremember taking the necklace off.” She ran her fingers acrossher bare collarbone.“Where do you last remember it?”“I put it on the bedside table. That’s that last place. AndI already checked there five times.”“Look in the couch and I’ll see if maybe you overlookedit in the bedroom.”Adelina aimlessly threw the leather pillows and cushionsfrom the pull-out sofa bed frame and ran her hand along betweenthe cracks. Some Golden Graham crumbs from the night before. Shepulled the bed out and checked under the mattress, behind the back.Nothing. She put the sofa back together and began pacing in thekitchen, scanning every inch of counter space. She looked aroundthe marbled sink, even tried to stick her hand down the drain. Shegrabbed the broom and ran it under the lower cabinet, the fridge,and the leaky steel dishwasher. Some dried up pepperoni and burntcrust no one must have wanted, too lazy to walk to the trashcan.What would her mother say? Adelina put the broomback in the closet and stared blankly at the banner over thestucco archway entrance: Happy 18th Addie! She pulled it downand stuffed it into and plastic trash bag with all the sticky sodacans, soggy paper plates, and shredded wrapping paper.“No luck,” said Tonnie as she entered the center room.“Addie? You’re not crying, are you? She walked around the mahoganyisland and put her hand on Adelina’s shoulder. “You canbuy a new one. Why, with money like you got, I bet you couldget three more. Saw one almost like it in Jared’s last week.”“That was my mom’s. Her grandma gave it to her when shemoved here from Spain when she was eighteen. Who knows howold it is?”

Tonnie hugged her and brushed her dark bangs from herred puffy eyes. “Listen, we can put in a request to lost and found.Maybe they can keep a lookout. You know? You can still find it.There’s good people.”“Guess so.” Adelina stared at the mosaic tile and sniffled.“It’s almost ten. We’d better turn in the keys before housekeepinggets here.”“Thanks for staying to help me clean up. Be right back.”Adelina shut the bathroom door and gazed at her irritatedface in the mirror. “Oh, God!” She blew her nose and driedher eyes. “I’ll know why one day.” As she walked through thebedroom, she stopped. “Hey, Tonnie,” she called, “you left yourjacket!” Adelina lifted it from the bed, grabbing it by the sleeve,and from an unbuttoned pocket, out slipped her golden chainnecklace. The settings of sapphires and diamonds sparkledin the light from the window, like the questions in her mind.There’s good people, huh?Richardson / 83

Wal-mart BagsDeborah R. MajorsI saw,pushed by a semi’s draft,Florida’s snowfloat from heavento Pineto grassthen tumbleweedalong the right of wayjourneying to somewhere else—anywhere else—until captured by thorny-fingered vinesor pineconesor barbed wireor a smirking sign claiminga “$500.00 fine” before salutingevery passerbyalong the two laned state highway,man’s territory, scented and markedwith musky-yellow double stripes.I sawa crow enter a handle-lipped plastic-white wombthen was birthedwith a cupcake creamed beak, a Hostess gift.I saw,tied with bungee cordsand pink ribbon to a Rural Route mailbox,poor man’s balloonsstuffed with pine straw and oak leavesflagging the party’s location.84 / Blackwater Review

I saw,I sawon the Mid-Bay Bridge,wind-filled blindness dive-bomba teenage Yamaha rider.crunchy wadsrecycled at the health food storeby a skinny old hippie—“Turn them inside out at least;hide the name that’s not yours.”“Can’t do that,” he whispered, de-wrinklingink with colloidal silver,goat’s milk soap, and Vitamin C,“Best to show the nature of the beast.”Majors / 85

86 / Blackwater ReviewComing HomeAshley SchreckengastCrisp and crinkly air melting softly on my tongue,like the orange October sky dripping on the leaves.Bonfire nights coat the morning with a hint of ashtill the chilly noon wind drives the coziness away.The men chop logs at midday near the old railroadtracks, and I watch as their muscles ripple goldenin the setting sun. The corn moon reigns goldenat twilight when the machines die in the fields, wheat ontongue,as the farmers hang up their leatherworks and the railroadgoes silent. Children abandon their giggles in the red piles ofleavesand the houses are shut up; starting fires to drive awaythe cold. The chimneys pouring out fiery hot breath and ash.The night reflects the dull silver of the annual ash,so bleak and dreary compared to the harvest moon’s goldenglow. The factory lights fade and the steelworkers drive awayto their suburban homes with meaty dishes to spoil theirtongues.The autumn continues to undress the trees, peeling away theleaves,and the men will come at daybreak to sweep the debris fromthe railroad.Before the cold settled, children played with pennies on therailroad,flattened smooth when the trains came billowing soot and ash.So much for the vibrant green of summer, now faded in theleavesthat clutter the sidewalks and paint the pathways golden.The children twirl, savoring the burnt orange with their

tonguestill their lips are numb from sucking and their hunger isdriven away.I was once a child, back when my autumn tongue tore awayfrom my mind and my language was lost playing on the railroadtracks. Fall is so fulfilling to the lonely, so tasty on the tongue.And I think of this at newborn twilight, brushing the heavyashoff my trench coat. Sentimentalists would find this momentgolden.As golden as the widow willows and the fallen orphan leaves.The father fuels the flames again and it’s the aroma of burningleavesthat makes the night somber and takes the warmth away.This is a royal masterpiece, all silver sky and moon that’sgolden.Or at least that’s how it looks from the view of the dingy railroadstation. Engine forty-one comes by at eleven riding thetongueof the steel tracks, rattling and gleaming blunt as coppery ash.So follow the golden walkway to the soda shop by the railroad.The men will be smudged with ash, kids poking out their pinktonguesin the windows, laughing as the leaves dance in the wind andblow away.Schrekengast / 87

Four VersesJames Melvini.My intoxicationsmashed, splintered, split in twoangels with neon halos race aboutwith sweaty upper lipstrying to pry the substance loosescraping the addiction away.I realizethat the high-pitched whineis just the sound of every moleculescreaming.ii.Clap of thundercold concrete against my backclosed my eyesfelt the room turn on its axisinertia keeps me nailed hereto a floor that matchesmy complexion.I have achievedPerfect camouflage.iii.When you’re in ityou will see through their sideways glanceslike wolvespacing in their cagesdull eyes turn asideand see this messof borrowed skinWelcome to the prison of the flesh.88 / Blackwater Review

iv.We wait heretrapped under the glass domea riot of cells daydreamingfeverish and rambling nakedwrapped in cool voicescrisp linen and blue moonlightalways wanting somethingmore.Melvin / 89

90 / Blackwater ReviewPlanting a GardenShelly BushListen to the voice of nature, for it holds treasures for you.- Native American proverb from the Huron TribeWhen I was a child, I found my Papaw standing at theedge of his garden. “Papaw,” I asked, “what are you doing?” Takingmy hand, he replied, “I’m conversing with my garden.”It takes a year to prepare, plant, and harvest a garden.It begins in January when decisions are made about which vegetableseeds to order. It ends in winter when the land is turnedand laid to rest. It’s not just time that makes a garden successful;science is involved too. It takes an understanding of whatnutrients need to be put into the earth so that the garden willbe an achievement worth bragging about. Gardening is a cycleof give and take. If the garden is given what it needs, it will giveback great tasting fruits and vegetables. My Papaw used to say,“You take care of the earth and the earth will take care of you.”The best way to take care of the earth is the natural way. Thenatural way means saving fruit and vegetable scraps and puttingthem in a big compost pile somewhere on the land. Then,when the time comes to turn the soil to prepare it for planting,all the decomposed scraps in the compost pile are incorporatedinto the plowed land.More than anything else, growing a garden takes a loveof the land. A love of the land involves not so much the technicalpart of growing things but rather an understanding of whatthe land is saying. It takes an appreciation of the land so deepthat the gardener is a land whisperer. The land talks to the landwhisperer in the language of the soil. The land lets the whispererknow when it is okay to turn over the earth. The landdoes this by staying clumped when it is squeezed in the hand.If the soil is too dry to work, it will fall through the fingers;however, if it is too soggy, it will drip moisture from the closedhand. Soil that is moist enough to work can be used to hill up

around plants to help them grow straight and tall without depletingtoo much moisture from the soil. If the soil is too sweet,meaning the soil has too much alkaline in its pH, or too sour,meaning the soil has too much acidity, a grower must balancethe pH to neutralize the soil. A good land whisperer can tellby observing the color of the soil, or by simply tasting the soilwhat is needed to balance the pH.I know about land whisperers because I was raised in theAppalachian Mountains where I learned from my Papaw, oneof the greatest land whisperers, how to plant and grow things.In the 1950s and 1960s in the hollow where I lived, we stillplowed our fields with a mule. In the spring we prepared theland. Potatoes were always planted on Good Friday, followed bypeas and other cool weather plants like lettuce, cabbage, broccoli,and cauliflower. Later in the spring we planted our warmweather vegetables. Corn was a big crop. We planted nearly fiveacres in feed corn for the mule and chickens and lots of sweetcorn for the family.I loved to work in the fields with Papaw. Side by side,Papaw in one row and I in the one next to him, we worked hardall day long. I loved being in the fields in my bare feet. I lovedthe way the earth would be warm from the sun on top yet coldunderneath when the hoe turned over the soil. Digging mytoes into the cool earth, I felt connected to the land throughthe smell of the soil, the sight of the many rows of sproutingvegetables, and the rhythmic sound of the hoe digging intothe earth. Alongside my Papaw, I learned the language of theland. We worked in the field until the air cooled and the sunset. When we left the garden, we would walk to the edge of thefield and turn to survey our work. We would stand there in thedimming of the day, the cool air mixing with the perspirationon our bodies. Standing at the edge of the land, I would takePapaw’s hand, and we would close out the day, listening to whatthe land had to say.Knowledge of the needs of the land, combined with alove of the land, is a gift that was handed down to me frommy grandfather. What he gave to me was taught to him by hisBush / 91

father and grandfather. My Papaw passed away after I had myfirst child, but to this day I remember everything he taught meabout the land. Now I go into my garden and I converse withmy land, and each time I do I hear the generations before mespeaking to me. Indians believe that humanity has an obligationto pass down good and right teachings through seven generations.They believe that we are all connected, through ourpast and future. When I am in my garden, the spirit of my ancestorsis there with me, their love of the land passing throughthem to me and through me to my children and grandchildren.With respect for my ancestors and the land, I practice what Iwas taught.As we stood at the edge of the garden, my grandsonasked, “Nana, what are we doing?”“We’re conversing with our land,” I replied.92 / Blackwater Review

All the TearsTiffany BostonHe was hiding around the corner. It was like a scene out of amovie, appearing out of the darkness. I just wanted to use aphone. He walked up to me and said, “Get back in the house.Didn’t I tell you not to leave?” So I went. I despised his everyword, his face, his voice, his very being. In that moment I trulyknew hatred.I thought afterwards that I should have refused. Ishould have stood my ground and told my neighbor that Ineeded help, or screamed at the top of my lungs. I should havedone anything but gone quietly. I let myself be manipulated.I’m grounded for six more months. If I try to run, he’ll put mein juvie. Why the hell does he want me here? He doesn’t evenlove me.I remember the day they got married. That was the daythat changed my life. I was no longer in control of my life. Shewas, and he became someone I didn’t want to know. At firsteverything felt like a dream. It was fine. Then like a bolt oflightning, everything got turned around. I didn’t know whichway was up.There were times when I thought physical abuse wouldhave been less painful, then to be completely stripped of allemotions, except the bad. I felt used, pathetic, worthless andunloved. My whole world was empty, and I, devoid of feeling.I will never know for sure, but I think he used to touch me.Sometimes at night, I would wake up because I could feel himnext to me. I would jump and tell him to go away. He acted asif he didn’t know where he was. I didn’t know what to believe.I didn’t want to think that, but now, I have to wonder. And ifwhat I suspect is true, then life can throw some hard ones myway. I’m just glad I won.I like to sit in the rain, let it completely drench me. Ifeel clean then. I remember one day, early in the morningwhile waiting for the bus, the rain was coming down in sheets.Bush / 93

It was beautiful. There were raindrops blending into eachother, falling down the face of heaven. It feels all right, whenthe sky is crying. It matches me, makes me feel big, as if I canclaim it for my own. That may be the only thing in my life thatI can find myself in. That big gray sky with all the tears . . . .94 / Blackwater Review

DeutschlandDareen MohamadI would have liked to meet you at the age of sixteen:Young, restless, and obscene.Let us, then, go,Along the nerves of Mark Rothko.Let us harbor the spine of the sky.Let us decay into the days of our imagined times.Revived and released,Tell Johannes we’ll live according to his piece.In the bones,You shall find the stones,That sank us 20,000 leagues under the sea,Into walnut-adorned cottage sheets.Mellon - Collie,Faux and folly,I shall meet you beneath the Wall of Berlin-Slumbered and pinned, stricken and sinned,How splendid Einstein was when he spoke of numbers!Hundreds of them encumbered!How he would shine when he’d speak.You shine in silence and sound, merry-go-round, lovely andprude:I believe I have seen greatness by gracing the lights of you;I have seen greatness because I have pondered the lights ofyou.Mohamad / 95

96 / Blackwater ReviewAfter the PeaceMeagan DahlDishes clank downstairs, and the once familiar smellof waffles succeeds in failing to rise throughout the circulationvents. I roll over and tuck myself farther under thesquishy red comforter. The birds call and beg me to open mycurtains; they have a routine of flying into the clear glass. Ilean reluctantly over the side of the bed to look at the sandcolored carpet, and stretch my legs slowly out of my sleepingball to dangle them over the floor. Setting my toes down, Idebate whether the birds are enough of a reason to freeze.I wander to the window, the darkness fades, in comes thegolden light. The trees continue to wave at me while thesquirrels wrestle in the grass below. Sighing, I slip on myfrog slippers and a robe. The day has officially begun.My mother turns on Soundscapes downstairs. Her wayof saying, “I am lonely. Come and have some tea.” I wanderdown through and onto the veranda, flinching at the squeakof the sliding glass door as I close it behind me. She sits in therocking chair, gazing at the lake and turtles below. “How didyou sleep?” she asks, without looking at me.“Great.” The usual answer to the usual question eachmorning.She turns to search my eyes, spotting the tear streaksrunning down my face and the redness from the night before.“You were up late again, I take it?”“Yes.”“Do you want to talk about it?”I shake my head, turning as the tears begin to rise fromthe well deep inside. My chest begins to burn. I sigh to washthem away, and reply, “I’m fine.”She resumes staring, dropping her shoulders. I love thatshe cares, that her motherly instinct to solve all of my problemspushes her to probe. I am all grown up now. I can handle all myproblems. I scoot my chair closer to hers and lie on her shoulder.

She leans her head on mine, and takes one of my hands in hers.With the other, she brushes the salty hair from my foreheadand strokes the side of my face. I begin to cry, tears once againdropping from my eyes to her shoulder. She begins to cry too,craning her neck to kiss me on the forehead. She understands.She is there only to be my shoulder. She can no longer enforceher opinions on me. Somehow she still understands, thoughI try to keep it from her, the secrets and pain that poke mygut, and squirm to get out. Without a word, gasping and snifflingcomes to a close, and we sit once again with the birds andthe music, soothing our troubled minds. Maybe now, the dayshould start, after the peace begins.Dahl / 97

Heartbeat of a FamilyMeagan DahlA circle of drummers call me; their steady beatpounds out a rhythm in my head.I move with caution to the end of a swayingline. Children in brightly beadedmoccasins swing freely betweenthe legs of the dancers.A deep wail above the drum begs my voice to join,but the salty taste of sweat keeps me silent.Women with sparkling dark eyessway to ancient rhythms. The linecloses around a ring of empty space, whilefeathered grass dancers strut in the center.Melodic cries call out to earth and sky,and I shield my blue eyes from the blazing sun.Old men in long braids shuffleto their own song. The sound of jingledancers swinging their skirts tied with rolledsnuff can lids drowns out all thoughts.Frantic wailing quiets to gentle, collective moans.Without realizing, a silent sob aches in my throat.My blond locks look out of place, but for a momentI feel connected to the dust beneath our feetand the warmth in everyone’s face.Our eternal dancing is a family.98 / Blackwater Review

ContributorsTiffany Boston is a student at the Collegiate High Schoolpursuing a medical degree. She hopes to attend Florida StateUniversity and minor in English.Lily Bruns is a dual enrollment high school student. Sheplans to study philosophy or psychology.Daniel Baker aspires to write professionally. He hopes topursue this subject in conjunction with a degree in philology.Shelly Bush is a freshman at Okaloosa-Walton College. Sheplans to obtain a degree in English literature.Kyra Candell is a sophomore at OWC’s Collegiate HighSchool. She hopes to study psychology and loves reading agood book.Meagan E. Dahl is a junior in the interdisciplinary humanitiesprogram at the University of West Florida. Her passionsinclude writing, painting, and history, and she plans to becomea college professor.Adam Duckworth was born in 1981 and received a Bachelorof Science degree in pastoral ministries in 2004 from SoutheasternUniversity. He is currently seeking a master’s degreein creative writing.Matt Haemmerle is a junior at OWC’s Collegiate HighSchool. He likes outdoor activities and enjoys traveling.Denise Harrigan, originally of Long Island, New York, haslingered in the enchantment of stories since childhood and hasrecently discovered the magic of poetry. She plans to studycreative writing at University of North Carolina in Asheville.Contributors / 99

Maegan R. Hartley, an OWC Collegiate High School senior, isbound for the University of South Florida where she will finishher English degree. She aspires to be a famous dancer, singer,model, actress or writer. Someday she hopes to open her owndance studio with massage sessions for her dancers.Shannon Horning is an eighteen-year-old student at OWCand plans to attend Everglades University in the fall to obtainher B.S. in alternative medicine. She enjoys writing as a hobbyand works at a bookstore in Fort Walton Beach.Deborah R. Majors says she’s over the hill but is enjoying theslant and added momentum. Creative writing is her new love,and she aspires to continue writing poetry, short stories, andsomeday, maybe a novel about a woman who finally graduatesfrom OWC, one class at a time.James Melvin gave up nursing to be a filmmaker. His parentsare still recovering from the shock.Dareen Mohamad is Palestinian, bilingual in Arabic and English.Born in 1989 in Kuwait City, she fled to America in 1990during the Gulf War. Currently majoring in biology at OWC,she hopes become a general surgeon. She considers herself agenuinely cultured person who would like to travel the worldand improve humanity’s condition.Rob Morada is a student at OWC. He currently intends tostudy psychology at the University of West Florida.Molly Mosher is a Collegiate High School student at OWC.She will attend a major university in the fall and major in thewild world of English.Donovan Murdorf is seeking a performance degree in classicalguitar. He often has a pen and paper in his pocket, in case anidea for a poem comes along.100 / Blackwater Review

Sara Richardson is a full-time OWC student and chief coordinatorof Christian Apologetics Fellowship and Believers Learningand Serving Together. She plans to graduate this May withan AA degree and attend the University of West Florida in thefall of 2007, pursuing a master’s degree in anthropology.Ashley Schreckengast is graduating from the OWC CollegiateHigh School in May and plans to obtain her master’sdegree in environmental engineering at the University ofFlorida.Alisa Self is a student at OWC’s Collegiate High School andenjoys writing and spending time with her friends.Sidney Speer is a real estate broker who studies writing in theoff season.Amber Stokes started writing when she was young becauseshe realized she could say exactly what she felt, and no onecould interrupt her or tell she was foolish. Now that she hasgrown as a person and as a mind, the blank pages leave her nochoice. They beg for her to share her thoughts.Reid Tucker is a red-haired lefty. He studies on and works injournalism. He likes fast cars, rock ‘n roll, spaghetti westerns,Ambrose Bierce, Ernest Hemingway, and penguins. He loveshis mom.Jzolandria Williams started writing in the fourth grade. Sheis majoring in English literature and creative writing.Contributors / 101

102 / Blackwater Review

CONTRIBUTORSDenielle Bergens-HarmonJessica BorsiKyra CandellPatricia CastelainStephanie CrowMo DaoDavid FlemingPhoebe GloverMatt HaemmerleJanis HannonAnita HesterSharon D. JamesCandice JoslinDanielle KellyJoan KordichJeffrey LeafgreenThomas LeightonMarie LibertyDeborah R. MajorsKendall MarshJane MontgomeryMaria B. MorekisDara NorthMatt PiersonJeni SenterMaria Geneve SteeleAdam Thair StevensRay StuberMelba ThompsonMatt TuckerReid TuckerRay WillcoxBecky WordBlackwater Review Spring 2008

Blackwater Review

Blackwater ReviewA Journal of Literature and ArtVolume 6, No. 1 Spring 2008Okaloosa-Walton CollegeNiceville, Florida

Blackwater Review aims to encourage student writing, studentart, and intellectual and creative life at Okaloosa-Walton Collegeby providing a showcase for meritorious work. Blackwater Reviewis published annually at Okaloosa-Walton College and is fundedby the college.Editors:Vickie Hunt, Julie Nichols, Amy RiddellArt Director:Benjamin GillhamEditorial Advisory Board:Jan Faubel, Jack GillCharles Myers, Deidre PriceArt Advisory Board:J.B. Cobbs, Benjamin Gillham, Stephen PhillipsLyn Rackley, Karen Valdes, Ann WatersGraphic Design and Photography:Candice Joslin, James MelvinWeb Design:Riotta ScottAll selections published in this issue are the work of students;they do not necessarily reflect the views of members of the administration,faculty, staff, District Board of Trustees, or FoundationBoard of Okaloosa-Walton College.©2008 Okaloosa-Walton College.All rights are owned by the authors of the selectionsFront Cover Artwork:Elegance, Jane Montgomery

AcknowledgmentsThe editors and staff extend their sincere appreciationto Dr. James R. Richburg, President, and Dr. Jill White, SeniorVice President, Okaloosa-Walton College, for their support ofBlackwater Review.We are also grateful to Frederic LaRoche, sponsor ofthe James and Christian LaRoche Distinguished EndowedTeaching Chair in Poetry and Literature, which funds the annualJames and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest,whose winner is included in this issue.

CONTENTSDon’t Suffer, Matt Tucker 1Louie, Ray Willcox 3I-10, Kendall Marsh 10Asphalt Moon, Maria Geneve Steele 11The Ground Is So Proud Just to Hold the Sun, Matt Pierson 23Movement, Jeni Senter 26Heartache, Deborah R. Majors 27Tiles, Ray Willcox 28Displaced, Matt Tucker 33Herculean, Marie Liberty 34A Poet’s Flight of Fancy, Deborah R. Majors 35Sandpaper, Kyra Candell 37Name Day, Marie Liberty 38The Matter at Hand, Reid Tucker 55From Beyond a Cobalt Sun, Reid Tucker 69Last Call, Thomas Leighton 70We Live by the Sparkling Sea, Maria Geneve Steele 72Walking Blues, Matt Tucker 81

I-10 Escape Route, Deborah R. Majors 82I Am My I-Tunes, Matt Haemmerle 85Waltz, Janis Hannon 88My Son, Jeni Senter 90Wishes, David Fleming 92Broken, Jeffrey Leafgreen 98Pull No Punches, Matt Tucker 99In My Skin, Jeni Senter 107Pa-ho-ja, Marie Liberty 110The Shoe, Jessica Borsi 111Lucky Star Quilt, Janis Hannon 112Dirt Road, Janis Hannon 114COLOR PLATESTortured Bliss II / Blue Boy, Denielle Bergens-Harmon 39Mack Bayou, Patricia Castelain 40The First Time I Made Sushi, Stephanie Crow 41For the Love of the Latte Boy, Phoebe Glover 42Abstract #1, Melba Thompson 43Cana Lily, Sharon D. James 44

Cinched, Anita Hester 45Reflection, Danielle Kelly 46Endless Power, Maria B. Morekis 47Reflections, Mo Dao 48Milo, Joan Kordich 49Sherry, Seated in Profile, Dara North 50Blossoms, Ray Stuber 51Dreaming of Childhood in a Time of War,Adam Thair Stevens 52Transformation, Candice Joslin 53Sequoias I, Becky Word 54

Don’t SufferMatt TuckerSince I’ve been alive, the earth has flownaround the sun twenty times. Spunon its axis more times than I can countwithout becoming dizzy. I’ve learned somecold and often hard facts, but I’ve also foundthat some things must be taken on faithor whatever you call that stuff.I believe that humor makes everythingbetter. (I’d like to add that to the fact list,but some people won’t let me.)Corny is cathartic. Not to digress, butI believe all British people are naturallyfunny…except Henry VIII: he really knewhow to kill a party.“Always eat the crust, no matterwhat it is,” says my belief stuff. “Those whodon’t, suffer.”It also promises that coffee is goodfor you. And who am I to question? Whoam I to question that sunshine is a foodgroup, or that most everything tasteslike chicken? Though the latter sounds fishy.I talk to strangers because I believein it. And because if I don’t, noone else will. They’re only strangersbecause no one talks to them. Youshould never try to blend in—most peopledo it with no effort at all.Tucker / 1

I never wear hair gel. I believe itwas invented so you can spot idiotsfrom farther away.I don’t always wear clothesthat match for much the same reason.Walk whenever you can, butbe prepared to run.2 / Blackwater Review

LouieRay WillcoxI hated Pépe. I made it all the way to the fourth gradenot hating anyone or anything before I met Pépe. I still hatehim and I’m glad that he’s dead although it’s now been so manyyears that he would have died long ago anyway.Pépe lived next door to Joey Menant’s cousins, Terryand Caroline Brousard. Joey was a year younger than I anda year older than my brother Alan. All of us except Carolinewere in the same classroom at East End Elementary School inMetairie. Mrs. Garity taught first through fifth grades in thatone room, and she didn’t mess around.One morning on the school bus Joey pulled up his pantleg and showed us where Pépe had bitten him. “Dat dog donebite me good,” he had said. He talked with a thick Cajun accent,as did his parents and most of the kids in school. Alan and I hada hard time understanding them even though it had been overa year since moving from Seattle. My dad said they talked coonass. I said that once too, but Mom popped me across the chopsand I became considerably more circumspect in describing localdialects, especially when she was within arm’s reach.“What did he say?” Alan asked.“Looky dere,” Joey said pointing to the punctures in hisleg. “Dat where he bite me.”We’d never seen evidence of a dog bite before and wereimpressed. “Dat dog a Mexican Chihuahua and he a mean littlebastard,” Joey explained.Alan and I smirked at one another. We still weren’t usedto hearing our contemporaries use cuss words. A few days afterJoey showed us the bite marks, I rode my bike half a block overto Terry and Caroline’s house to see if they wanted to come overand play kickball in our back yard. I rode fast because I likedthe little dust trail that the bike made in the crushed oystershells. I got off my bike and was going up the steps to the porchwhen Pépe streaked across the yard, yapping like a banshee. IWillcox / 3

probably could have just run into the house, but that thoughtnever entered my mind. You just didn’t go into somebody’shouse uninvited. I tried to get back to the bike and escape. Pépecut me off before I could get aboard and nailed me a couple ofgood ones on the back of the leg just above the ankle. I couldkeep him at bay as long as I faced him and kicked at him whenhe charged, and I backed most of the way home before he finallylost interest and trotted away. I later came to understand thatwe had reached a Mexican standoff.After that I developed a way to torture Pépe. Joey toldus that Pépe got you on the down stroke if you were peddlingyour bike so I would get going as fast as I could and then comezipping past Pépe’s house. When he came charging out, I’dlift my legs to the handlebars and coast while he yapped andjumped, trying to get me. He must have thought that I couldcoast forever because he always turned back for home before Ihad to peddle.I told Alan about the game, and he wanted to give it atry. The next day the two of us came flying by the front of Pépe’shouse. I don’t know if Pépe got smarter overnight or if— sincethere were two of us— he decided he should chase us twice asfar. Unlucky for Alan, he was behind me when we coasted to astop with Pépe right on our tail. Alan was able to keep him atbay for a few seconds by putting one foot down and then theother as Pépe ran around the bike to try and get at him. Helooked like a dancing chicken until Pépe got even smarter andran under the bike to nail him.I grabbed a stick that was lying on the side of the roadand we were able to keep Pépe at bay while we backed our waybeyond his sphere of interest. Alan, always dramatic, began towail and sob about his injuries as we neared our house. Momcame running out, and we told her that the mad dog up thestreet had attacked us. We skipped over our part in teasinghim.Mom washed Alan’s wounds and put peroxide on them.Peroxide doesn’t hurt but when it fizzed up Alan was sure thatanything that looked like that must hurt, and he howled all4 / Blackwater Review

the more. Mom finally told him to pipe down or she’d give himsomething to howl about. Miraculous words: he stopped inmid-tizzy and toned down to a whimper.Our backyard baseball games gave way to football ascooler weather replaced the early autumn heat, and we didn’ttease Pépe anymore since he learned to chase us farther. Withthe advent of nicer weather, Pépe was walked once around theblock as Miss Maime, the LaForte’s maid, pushed the babybuggy. I didn’t even know the LaForte’s had any kids until thatbegan.Joey told us about Miss Maime long before we ever sawher. No one else had a maid, so she was something of a novelty.Joey said that she did all the work around the place and whenshe hung out the wash she dipped snuff and could spit hard andstraight enough to nail a grasshopper in flight. I never saw herdo that, but he swore on his grandma’s grave it was true. That’sa serious oath, especially for a Cajun.Most of the time we played in the back yard, but on thisparticular day we were on the front porch playing army men.In addition to Joey and Alan, our little brother Jeff was there,too. Even though he was only four, we had to let him play tooor Mom would get after us. When Miss Maime came along, wewaved and spoke because it was good manners for kids to speakto adults regardless of color. Failure to be mannerly would getyou a whipping just as fast as hitting a brother.I don’t know what got into Pépe, but he suddenly ranright up onto the porch and bit Jeff on the hand. He didn’teven bark, just ran up there and bit. I jumped up and had thesatisfaction of giving Pépe a good kick even though I was barefooted, and he ran back to Miss Maime. It really wasn’t all thatmuch of a bite, and Jeff didn’t squall nearly as much as Alanhad. Nevertheless, Mom was pretty mad and that was serious,but that wasn’t Pépe’s worst problem. Pépe made the mistakeof making Louie mad.Louie was our cat. Actually, we were his family and hethought Jeff belonged to him. His mother lost all nine of herlives in an ill-advised decision to run across Canal Street. HisWillcox / 5

others and sisters were adopted right away, but Louie waskind of scraggly looking and didn’t have a lot of curb appeal.Somehow my tenderhearted mother heard of his plight andbrought him home for us to become his family. My dad namedhim Louis in honor of Louis XIV since we lived near NewOrleans. My brothers and I called him Louie. He wasn’t weanedyet, so we fed him with a toy baby bottle, and Jeff loved to feedhim. Even though he was only three, Jeff could fill that littlebottle with milk and not spill a drop, feed Louie, then fill thebottle again and feed him again. Louie loved the cold milk andthe life of a fat cat and he loved Jeff.Louie was over a year old when Pépe bit Jeff, and he’dgrown from a scraggly runt of a kitten to a hefty male tabby. Wedidn’t call him a tabby even though that’s what he was becausehe seemed to think it sounded kind of swish. He had the run ofthe house, and could come and go as he pleased because he knewhow to use the screen door. Going out was a no-brainer since allhe had to do was lean against the door. If the door was latchedfor some reason, he would climb up the screen and meow atthe latch until one of us undid the hook. He used us like a voiceactivated unlatching service. From the outside he would hookhis toes under the door and pull it back far enough to get hisnose into the opening and then push on into the house.The day after Jeff was bitten, Mom had put me on roomconfinement. Apparently I’d had a tone in my reply to somerequest she’d made. “You take that smart mouth upstairs, youngman. You are on confinement until I tell you to come down, andyou just think about the proper way to speak to me.”There was no point is asking her what I’d said; that couldturn an hour’s worth of confinement into a life sentence. Thesmart thing to do would have been to apologize on the spot,but I stomped my way to the room Alan and I shared. WhenI got upstairs I heard Miss Maime coming along for their lateafternoon walk.Our bedroom was at the north end of the house, and Iwatched Pépe, Miss Maime and carriage go by the front. WhenI went to the side to watch them go up the street, I caught a6 / Blackwater Review

glimpse of Louie. He was paralleling them in the weeds on theother side of the dry ditch from them. The grass and brush wastoo thick to keep him in sight, but every now and then I wouldsee some movement in the weeds and I knew it was him. Theywere about twenty-five yards up the street when all of a suddenPépe started barking wildly and charged across the dry ditchinto the weeds.Pépe’s frenzied barking abruptly ended with a shrillyelp that may well have been the Chihuahua equivalent of “OhShit!!” That was followed by a lot of growling and thrashingand crashing in the brush. My attention was diverted fromthe movement in the brush to Miss Maime. She howled and itmade the hair stand up on the back of my neck.She knew beyond a shadow of doubt that a Hoodahhad grabbed Pépe. They were known to come out in the earlyevening and create all manner of mayhem, especially foranimals, children, and people of color. Then after that howl,which would have caused a demon to defecate, she ran up theroad with a speed that was nothing short of astounding. If Ihadn’t seen it myself, I would have never believed a personwith that mass could cover so much ground so quickly. I wouldestimate that before I lost sight of her when she turned thecorner, she had covered about a quarter of a mile in slightly lessthan ten seconds.By the time Jeff and Alan came over to see what the noisewas about, she was out of sight. Her reaction had an unnervingeffect on me. Things were now death-still where the thrashingin the brush had been going on. I told my brothers the awful,unvarnished truth: Miss Maime had seen a Hoodah, and it gotLouie and Pépe. I tried to get Alan to go out and check sinceI was on confinement, but he wasn’t having any of that. Norcould we get normally gullible Jeff to go out either. Hoodahshave that effect on you, a tendency to want to stay indoors andin groups.We were eating supper when we heard Pépe’s ownerwalking down the street calling for him. I told the rest of thefamily about what I’d seen that afternoon and wondered if weWillcox / 7

should tell Pépe’s family that a Hoodah had got him. Of course,my mom and dad launched on the “there’s no such thing ashoodahs and ghosts” speech. My brothers and I just exchangedglances. How do you figure adults? They tell you that there is aSanta Claus, and we all knew that there was not, and they tellyou that there are no spooks when all the evidence clearly saysthat there are.It was my job to take out the trash after supper. Ourburn barrel was way out in back of the house, and I was inthe process of negotiating with Alan for him to go with mewhen we heard Louie mewing outside. He’d escaped from theHoodah! We looked out and there he was at the bottom of theback door steps. His tongue was out and he was panting. We’dnever seen him do that before. Then we saw why. Just outsidethe splash of light from the kitchen, there was Pépe…dead as adoornail. I think that the penny dropped for Alan and me in thesame instant, and we realized that Louie had done in Pépe anddragged him home.Other than the look on his face and the fact that hisbulgy eyes were even bulgier, Pépe didn’t look all that bad. Therewere some marks where Louie jumped on him and teeth markson his neck where he’d been choked, but all and all not too bad.After a hurried whispered conference, we went and got Dad,and the three of us buried Pépe behind the garage back into thebrush. We thought it best to not tell Mom and Jeff although Isuspect Dad told Mom after we’d gone to bed.Louie got a long drink of water and then assumed hisnormal spot on the living room windowsill where he could keepan eye on the universe. Jeff was blubbering with happiness athis return while Louie acted as if nothing had happened at all.A little while later we heard Mr. LaForte coming down the roadcalling for Pépe. Dad just gave us a little negative shake of hishead. People can be funny about their dogs, even nasty littledogs like Pépe.Louie was sitting on the windowsill the next afternoonwhen Miss Maime came by on the usual walk. We were playingon the porch, and I was going to comment on how fast she can8 / Blackwater Review

un, but she spoke first and asked us if we had seen Pépe.“No, Ma’am,” I replied honestly. “The last time I sawPépe, he was out there in the brush.”Alan nearly wet himself. And when I looked over atLouie, I thought he had a smirk on his face.Willcox / 9

I-10Kendall MarshI’ve seen these trees a thousand timesAnd this billboard that I love so much,The flashing lights are quite obnoxiousBut they signal that there’s only a few miles left.One day I’d like to stealThe Florida Highway 69 signTo make the drive worth the trouble.Time passes like an old coupleIn a Buick stuffed with suitcases.I let them mosey by meI have nowhere to be in a hurry.I’m used to steady movementAnd solid pace.Same old shit, different day.Three hours is a long time to be still,My back aches from slouching in the seatLike I’ve been lifting your burdenAnd supporting the weight.I keep thinking that you’re worth the tripBut like this road you’ll never changeI know you like my tires know the ride home.10 / Blackwater Review

Asphalt MoonMaria Geneve SteeleJesus shouted over the sound of my truck and said that,as far as the state of Florida and other law enforcement officialsare concerned, his last name is Martinez. From the driver’s seatI could see only his head and long, wavy brown hair. He wasmid-twenties, my age, maybe younger, with light brown skin,wide-set black eyes, and what looked to be the beginnings of ascraggly goatee. A migrant worker, I was sure.I’d seen him just outside Orlando at dusk, carrying whatappeared to be a large gym bag, walking too close to the edgeof the highway. He was hitching but not seriously: his backwas to oncoming traffic and he held his thumb out next to hisbody, like it was a little flesh branch sprouted from his thigh.The Hope Orchard Trucking Company trusted me with theirbrand new refrigerated big rig. It was a cushy perk after twoyears of loyal service (not bad for a recovering meth addict).I wish I could say that I don’t normally pick up hitchhikers,but that wouldn’t be true. I like the company, simple as that.And I’ve heard all kinds of fake names: Siga Rhettes, Jimmy A.Fondler, Brad Pitt, Buck Tooth, Diddly Squat, GrahamingtonFairweather and on and on.Jesus climbed into my cab and despite the warm night,he was wearing a shiny green jacket over a Mickey MouseT-shirt and baggy jeans. He was clean, with no evidence ofthe road on his person, and he had a tangy citrus smell to himthat filled the cab. What he was carrying was not a gym bagbut more like a carpet bag, covered in the kind of floral printusually reserved for window dressings and English nannies.I told him my name was Milo–pronounced mee-low–and, asfar as he was concerned, I didn’t have a last name. He quicklyglanced at my commercial trucker’s license posted on the sunvisor (clever bastard), pointed to it, and told me my own lastname. I let off the brakes and we were down the road with mefeeling like a bum.Steele / 11

“Mee-low rhymes with philo, like the pastry. Have youthought of that?” asked Jesus. He pronounced his words socarefully that it was difficult to detect an accent.“No, I guess I haven’t.”“I like baklava. It is a Mediterranean dessert. Do youlike it?”“Yes,” I answered though I think I had it just once, on adate I couldn’t afford with a girl who would figure that out.“At the next stop I’ll get us some.”“Sure,” I said and wondered if Jesus Martinez had everset foot in a truck stop.A few miles down the road and we were silent. He wasalready inspecting the dash and buttons on his armrest withhis delicate fingers. It was a nice rig, all bells and whistles. Whatwith all the talk of pastries, I forgot to ask Jesus Martinez wherehe was headed. I tried to ask where, but he wouldn’t say exactly,only that he wanted to “see north.” He yawned and stretched hisarms, nearly touching me and settled back in, leaning againstthe door.I explained to Jesus that, for his information, my trailerwas carrying the finest Florida produce on a long-haul to NewYork. Furthermore, in case he’s interested, the New Yorkers paytop-dollar for Florida produce. That’s why we can’t get shit forcitrus in our own state, assuming Florida is your state. Perhapsif you’re from elsewhere, like the Dakotas, you’re used to punyfruit. But if you want the most delicious grapefruit you’ve evertasted–I’m talking a grapefruit the size of a baby’s head–thenyou have to go to New York City.Jesus yawned and then disagreed. He said that the fruitis picked too early to tell if it was going to be the best and so, onecan never know. It’s a mystery. This was my point exactly, I said,they never let it develop. Maybe the best fruit–the cream of thegoddamn crop–is going north, picked too early. Then, in a way, Isaid, we’re all getting shitty fruit. Jesus said that it’s not that weall get shitty fruit . . . it’s that we don’t know what we’re getting,but we eat it and we live. Sometimes, we come across somethingsweeter. How nice, he added. The philosopher yawned again andsnuggled into the door and I dropped the topic.12 / Blackwater Review

I told Jesus that I wouldn’t be a trucker for long. Yes,that’s right, I’m going to pilot training, Buddy. I’m going tobe one of those cats in the sky. Not even the Hope OrchardTrucking Company knows I’m on the way out but goodriddance. I’ve saved $31,000 so far, and this trip will take meto $32,000—and that’s how much it will cost to get myselfthrough pilot training and pay my bills and with a couple grandleft to start brand new. I figured it out exact, like a goddamnedaccountant or something.But even as I said this, I felt detached from my owndream, as if it had fragmented and I was just pulling down bitsof information for conversation. I neglected to tell Jesus thatjust yesterday, for reasons I couldn’t work out, I withdrew allmy savings, wrapped it in a clean flannel shirt and tucked itbeneath my sleeper just behind me.I bragged to Jesus that, while I’m not prone to fancypurchases, I did buy a pair of Ray-Ban aviator shades for myself.They were on sale. They’re still new in the case in the glove box incase he’s interested in seeing them. I looked over and wouldn’tyou know it, Jesus Martinez was completely out, asleep witha thickening dollop of droll suspended from the corner of hismouth, like it hadn’t quite decided which path it would take tohis chin. Also in the course of Jesus’ being bored to sleep by myconversation, his head had slipped down the window, leavingan oily trail on the glass to trap individual strands of his longhippie hair, making him look electrified. Some company.For three hundred miles Jesus Martinez didn’t stir, notwhen I hummed the songs from the radio, not when I honked ata school bus load of brats doing that sort of perverse pumpingthing with their arms, not when I swerved to miss a driftingVolkswagen and almost fishtailed a church van, not when I gavea young woman in a convertible a whistle (actually, the windowwas up and I hoped she didn’t hear me, since that’s a rude thingto do, especially at night when a woman is alone), not evenwhen I switched on the CB and loudly pretended to agree witha band of Rush Limbaugh enthusiasts. At one point I nearly ranoff the road concentrating on Jesus’ abdomen to make sure hewas still breathing. I even poked him. Nothing.Steele / 13

Just as I was getting used to the silent sleep of JesusMartinez, it was time for a stop. The moment the engine was cutat the Speedy Truck Stop near Savannah, Jesus sprang to life. Hewiped his mouth and unglued his hair from the window, gentlycombing it out with his fingertips, which was something I’d seenonly women do. I stared at him, trying to catch his attention,because I thought he deserved the stink eye. But without lookingat me or so much as a word, he opened the door and hoppeddown. I couldn’t see him for a moment, and then he appearedagain, sprinting into the store. From the back, with his long hairbouncing like he was in a shampoo commercial, Jesus looked likea slender girl in baggy clothes. The other truckers who hadn’tseen Jesus Martinez from the front thought he was a girl too;one even whistled at him. Run, Jesus, run. Good riddance.While I was pumping fuel I saw three truckers walkbehind the building. This had to be drugs, not girls, since thegirls don’t hang around nice stops like this. The drugs, though,are everywhere. Meth, most likely. At least, that was my choiceback when I worked for Snidely’s Home Decor, hauling furnitureand quilts from the Carolinas to Los Angeles, where the priceswere jacked sky high so actresses could feel like they were backhome in the South. Then I would do the reverse, taking bizarreart and modern furniture back to the Carolinas for nouveaurich hill folk.It must’ve been good shit the guy was selling for threetruckers to go back in a matter of minutes. They’d best be careful.I like to see guys get away with it. Maybe I like to see it becauseI didn’t get away with it. I had gotten to the point where I wasfiltering my own urine, keeping it in a jug right next to me,sipping it on my way across the U.S. with fancy furniture andquilts in tow, driving hard to make the whole country feel likethey were someplace else.As it turned out, when I spilled a jug of meth-urine on a copwho’d pulled me over for excessive speeding, it didn’t go over well. Mylife was put on stop, as a matter of fact, and I endured hours with asad-faced counselor –a former meth addict himself –named Hal, whoquietly said that I could tell him everything. Everything. Since I14 / Blackwater Review

was in for a mandatory ninety days and had nothing better todo, I told him that I used because an extra day awake sometimesmeant an extra grand in my pocket and then my mother couldkeep her shitbox of a house another month and my sister–Godbless that poor slut –could have her third bastard in a decenthospital before handing it over to grateful strangers.Hal nodded his head and said he understood and saidhe believed I could be anything. Anything. He called out variousprofessions, like I was in goddamned grade school, and wantedme to pick one best suited. Being a trucker suits me fine, I toldHal, but he insisted on the game and he had such sorrowful browneyes that I felt low for not playing along. So I listened as Hal saiddoctor, lawyer, businessman (an obscure profession, even Haladmitted, and then he promised to be more specific), constructioncrew chief, corporate paralegal, cargo ship captain, mulling spicesalesman, FedEx delivery man, commercial pilot, counselor forrecovering meth addicts, unarmed security guard…“Pilot,” I said and meant it. Immediately Hal’s eyeslooked a little less sad and I could tell he needed a winner, justone, and he’d be okay too. Hal was so enthusiastic that he evenmanaged to help clear my record, on account of it being a firstoffense and also, I suspected, on account of their only evidencebeing a jug of urine.Hal clipped out one of those standard pilot pictures hefound in a magazine: a handsome cat in a bomber jacket, lookingskyward with purpose, his shades reflecting the passing clouds. Likea kid I taped the clipping inside my spiral-bound recovery journal,which if I tried to read today I likely could not understand.I got out of rehab with a plan and Hal hooked me up withthe Hope Orchard Trucking Co., and for two years I did nothingbut drive, never missing a day of work, sending some money backhome like a good man, putting the rest in savings, and spendinghour after hour imagining myself in the air. I gained nearly onehundred pounds because–every addict knows this–you’ve got toreplace something with something.I called Hal every couple of weeks to let him know how Iwas getting along since, really, it was his dream as well as mine, ISteele / 15

thought. He listened to my stories from the road. Except, for thepast several weeks he hadn’t answered my calls and when I finallygot a hold of someone, they told me Hal, God rest his soul, had aheart attack a couple weeks back. An overdose–or didn’t I know hewas using again? No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t. I wasn’t on Hal’sroster of people to contact if he cranked back up, but then, addictsaren’t that organized.Before I knew it I was feeling around the sleeper andwithdrawing several hundred dollars from my private flannelATM. I walked to the back of the building, following a smallfellow in a dirty red cap. I stopped short before turning thecorner and listened for the code. Apparently, the code wassilence. The red-capped fellow came around and I startledhim–his eyes bulged and he stepped back and smiled, showinga mouthful of rot. He hurried away and it was my turn. Sureenough, the dealer was there, standing just outside a ring oflight, smoking a cigarette. I startled him too–it was like I was agoddamn ghost or something-–and stepped around the ring oflight until I was standing in front of him, breathing in his yearsof cooking dope, his chemical sweetness.The dealer reached in his pocket and for some reason, Ithought of the sound of Hal’s voice on the telephone, the way hesounded like he was always about to burst into tears. His voicematched his eyes, though I don’t know why I hadn’t thought ofthat before. I ran like hell.I was met at the corner by the womanly silhouette ofJesus Martinez, carrying a handful of tightly-wrapped pastries.I tumbled back and dropped the money I was carrying.Jesus held the desserts out with both hands for meto see. Baklava, warmed, he said. He saw that I was trying togather my money and bent to help me. No, thanks, I told him.In the low light behind the Speedy Truck Stop, JesusMartinez looked like the saddest person in the world. He lookeda bit like Hal, though this could be my imagination. Besides,Hal was not keen on Mediterranean desserts, at least not thatI know of. Jesus said he gave someone in a red cap a piece. Helooked like he could use it. There’s plenty left for us, he added. I16 / Blackwater Review

walked past Jesus and climbed into the rig. Before I let out thebrakes, Jesus scampered in, balancing his desserts in one hand,and just managed to shut the door as we lurched forward.“Were jew going to leave me?” he wasn’t pleading, exactly,but he was definitely upset, and his accent crept back through.“The thought had crossed my mind.”“But my bag? My tings are still here.”“Oops. Well, welcome to the road. Besides, you’re notmuch company, sleeping beauty.”“I did no come to entertain jew,” he said flatly, foldinghis arms, and we were silent again with nothing but thebaklava between us.We were just outside of Savannah when Jesus was sotaken by the full moon that he gasped. I agreed that it was nice,one of those moons that rises above the asphalt and gives youthe feeling that you’re going to drive right into it. It made Jesusglow. He looked like he’d been dipped in a bluish light. Even thetips of his sparse facial hair were illuminated.“We call it the Asphalt Moon,” I explained. “The full moon.It makes us do crazy things.” And I tried to smile an apology.“Why is the moon at fault?” he asked.“No, no. Asphalt. The pavement.”“I see,” he said. “Payment. You have debt to pay. We all do.”I wanted to explain to the philosopher our full moontheory but there was someone passing and honking on my left.I looked to see the small trucker in the dirty red cap, smilingand waving his half-eaten pastry like we were all best pals. Hewas high up, lucky fellow. I dropped the topic and reached for apiece of baklava.I ate three pieces before Jesus said he had more. Hereached into his carpet bag, pulled out a large thermos andpoured me a cup of what he said was the most delicious coffee inthe world: Kopi Luwak from Indonesia. I took a sip and agreedthat I’d not ever had coffee like that. It had a strong flavorwithout being bitter. I was taking a second gulp when he toldme that the coffee was made from beans eaten, partly digestedSteele / 17

and then excreted by a weasel-like animal called a civet. Thenhe took a sip and smiled.So, we’re drinking weasel turd coffee? But really, Ididn’t care. It was that good.Through the Carolinas Jesus Martinez talked almostnon-stop, describing the parade of carefully-wrappeddelicacies as he pulled them from his carpet bag. His voicehad a Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom quality. He told meabout the elderly woman who fed him and helped him withhis English. She would try anything. One time, according toJesus, she roasted a cockroach and dipped it in chocolate. Hestill had one left but politely said he wanted to keep it. Formemories, he said.He had a story for exotic nuts, gold-flecked darkchocolates from Belgium, dried cod from Canada, frog legs, aturtle’s egg, morel mushrooms, Mississippi spicy caviar, andfinally, a slice of quiche Lorraine. We nibbled our way north,and when we were done with each item he took care to wrapwhat remained and put it back in his carpet bag.Suddenly it hit me. Here I was, eating whatever thisstranger–an illegal–fed me. I had gained so much weight thatit wouldn’t be hard for someone to guess my weakness. Andhe kept feeding me. And he knew I had a pile of money–hehad offered to help pick some of it up. He may have discoveredthe real stash as I was stuffing my face. I braced myself. I wassilent. Poison, I thought.I tried to sort it out: Jesus was just some thief who hadexpensive taste in food. Or perhaps he purchased the foodfrom a regular grocery store, wrapped up the goodies and madeup some stories. Which, actually, would be impressive. Evenworse, perhaps the elderly woman was real and he had killedher and made off with her goodies and her floral print carpetbag. I imagined Jesus sneaking up behind a grandmotherlywoman as she lovingly cut slices of baklava and then bashingher over the head with a club.This was my punishment for needing company all thetime, for needing someone to constantly watch over me.18 / Blackwater Review

Jesus continued to talk and, apparently having pickedup some slang, said “I half had to piss for a coon’s age.” Wewere in the middle of Richmond and I pulled into the Trucker’sLast Stop. I didn’t say a word.Jesus took his bag and did a sideways run to thebathroom, which was locked, so then he ran in to see thecashier and got the key, which was attached to a small hubcap, then ran back to the bathroom. This all look dramatizedto me.From the back of the building a young woman emergedand Jesus stopped to give her a look. She was dressed in ashort jean skirt with purple fishnet stockings and a small furjacket. She had nice features but even from my cab I could seecrank craters on her face. Someone needed to tell her to get inthe dim light, the more flattering light, on the other side ofthe building.I immediately began feeling around the sleeper for myflannel shirt. Sure enough, it was gone. I flew out of the truckand made my way to the bathroom to wait for that son of abitch Jesus Martinez. It’s one thing to make a conscious effortto throw away your own dreams, it’s another to watch thembeing stolen from you. It does something. It makes you crazy.Before I knew it, the prostitute was in front of me. You’llget caught, sweetheart, I told her, and I was condescendingabout it, since she was braver than most. Stupid, in fact. Herlips were dark pink. Not tonight, she said and walked mebackwards, clinging to my shirt with her painted claws. I hada thought, a thought that she was working with him.“Is he paying you to do this? Did you coordinate this?”I pointed in her face.“What the hell did you just say, trucker? Are youthreatening me?” She had her hands on her hips and suddenlylooked tough. I wondered what her name was.I saw Jesus Martinez come out of the bathroom and Iran past the prostitute as fast as I could, weighted down by theevening snacks. The poison is working, I thought. I grabbedhis skinny bird arm, pinned him against the wall and punchedSteele / 19

him square in the nose. I heard the crack of his head on thewall and blood ran down his nose and over his mouth.I snatched his carpet bag, tore it open and flippedit upside down, shaking out the contents. As I did this Ithought about crushing the quiche Lorraine which, despitethe situation, was admittedly quite delicious.I studied the contents of the bag: half eaten treats,tenderly wrapped; two pair of jeans and three shirts which,until that moment, had been folded; a comb, a small travelshaving kit, new, judging by its unshaven owner; and twoprescription pill bottles. There was no money. I kept lookingand looking but there was no money.For some reason, I remembered telling Hal about themobile my sister had made for her second kid. She planned onkeeping the kid and had cut Budweiser cans and suspendedthem from fishing line that belonged to her boyfriend, the kid’ssupposed father. When social workers came because neighborssuspected abuse, they saw the mobile and noted it in theirreport. I kept the mobile in a little box beneath my bed at home,to remember the poor kid. These are the kinds of things I clingto, was what I told Hal. This is my life, summed up.In response, Hal silently showed me a smoothed worrystone, a chewed pencil from grade-school, a frayed photo of adark-headed girl, his girlfriend, whose name I forgot. She waspretty, one of those artistic girls who wear their hair in a pixiecut with large colorful barrettes. He was waiting on her torecover, spending month after month, watching addicts fly intorages, patiently dispensing advice, always with watery eyes, andsitting in an office, becoming part of its mildew smell. He musthave tired of waiting.This was what I thought of as I looked on the ground atthe contents of one man’s life.The prostitute was hitting me, and her tiny fists feltalmost like a massage. When I looked up Jesus was holdingout his wallet, and he swayed a little, woozy. I grabbed himand hugged him and began to shake. I heard the clicking of theprostitute’s heels as she made her way back to the shadows.20 / Blackwater Review

Jesus’ small body was frozen and, looking back, this is exactlythe kind of reaction I would have. I finally let go and wonderedhow to apologize. I couldn’t say anything.“You have payment,” he said, looking terrified. “You arenot at fault. It is the moon.”The store clerk saw us and locked the front door. Hisface was pressed against the glass and he looked grateful thatthere was something solid between him and the scuffle. The cablights of other trucks started to come on, and I quickly knelt tohelp Jesus with his things. He said “no, no please” and gatheredhis own things. I offered him a ride but he refused, naturally.Please, I begged, please let me take you. I told him he neededmedical attention and that I would pay for it. Besides, I said,the police will probably come here.We raced towards the Hope Orchard Trucking Company’srig. I leapt in through the passenger’s side. I looked again tomake sure and my flannel bank roll had shifted and was in plainsight on the other side of the sleeper.Though there’s nothing fast about starting an18-wheeler, I did the best I could. Jesus stood on the railholding his things wrapped in clothing. The blood on his facewas beginning to dry and darken. He wouldn’t get in. I couldn’tblame him. “Here’s your bag,” I told him. “Keep it,” he said. “Youneed it more than I do.”“I hope you fly” was the last thing he said, and I’m notsure whether this was a reference to my becoming a pilot orwhether he meant immediately, to escape justice. And then hestepped down and shut the door on his way. In the rearviewmirror I saw the prostitute peering from behind the building,giving me the finger. Jesus had disappeared.My heart was still beating too quickly when I pulledin to unload in New York. I called the Hope Orchard TruckingCompany and told them that I couldn’t drive back. I just couldn’tdo it anymore. Goodbye. And good riddance.I did what I had wanted to do since I let Jesus Martinezin my cab fourteen hours prior: I looked in his carpet bag, intovacuous space. I reached my arm in to see how far it would go. ISteele / 21

sort of cringed, thinking something might bite me and laughedout loud at myself.I took the Greyhound back south. I found a nice spot onthe side where the sun was shining and heating the glass. I letthe heat and the vibrations from the bus rock me to sleep. I heldmy new floral-print carpet bag on my lap, knowing not manypeople would take a chance to bother a sleeping cat clinging toa floral-print carpet bag the way I was clinging to this one.22 / Blackwater Review

The Ground is So Proud Just to Hold the SunMatthew PiersonHe was sitting at a table, close to the punch bowl, closerto the dance floor. The whole room was roughly square, withtwo sets of matching double doors opening away from eachother on opposite sides of the room. It was really a gym, in allstereotypical nature, complete with raised basketball goals oneach end, darkened for mood, with the sounds of portable A/Cunits hanging from the roof and a band hoping for cash in moreways than one by the end of the night. He was definitely alone atthe table, aside from the couple who were twenty minutes fromacting as one in a dark room. He was definitely the only oneat the table who didn’t have thoughts as clouded by hormonesas the rest because, after all, he was still a teenager. He wasstill at the prom. His date had still left him to go talk to herfriends, both male and female. He was still estranged, an uglyduckling in a room full of social butterflies. His thoughts, hadanyone paid any attention or cared about them, were entirelydepressing, existential, and unforgiving. He was a typical male,unseeing to half the world, and completely focused on theother quarter. He was unhappy, just as the band burst into aterrible rendition of some song he had never heard before bysome band called Linird Skinird. At least, that’s how he thoughtit was spelled. It was probably spelled with an umlaut and halfa dozen x’s and y’s added in at random points in order to makeit appear hardcore. “hXc” he would have added in a mockingtone. How was he the only person here who wasn’t thinkingwith his other head? How was he the only person not cryingbecause their date had left them to go find just how far theirhormones would carry them? He thought all this and muchmore. Most of it was incredibly cynical and should have madehim an insufferable person. He was an insufferable person;there is no doubt of that. But, his thoughts and judgments onmost everyone else were entirely wrong.Pierson / 23

It is true that a good bit of the room had a plan for therest of the night involving some alone time with someone else.But quite a few had rather pure intentions on this time. Atleast, they did when they started. But their dates had entirelydifferent minds about the phrase “getting to know you.” Ofthose who were crying, there were many who were cryingnot for the lack of their date, not for the fact that they mighthave felt something for those whom they brought, but for thepractical joke of watering down the punch with another clearliquid that when drunk quite quickly, for those who never drink,would cause them to tear up. Of course, this might also explainthe number of children conceived on this night, but that is anentirely different story.She, however, had not taken a sip of punch and wassneaking as many glances from under, around, above, andthrough the arms of her date, who was definitely intoxicated. Thecute boy at the table who seemed to be ignoring the whole worldon sheer force of will and principle was somehow attractive toher. He was not as much physically attractive, but emotionally.It was that intense kind of interest, that wholesome, unfettered,unbridled attraction that has nothing to do with hormonesand more to do with something buried deep inside someone,that only gets unlocked from time to time. Call it Arête, callit Nirvana, call it insanity, call it anything you want, but thatis what it was, at that moment, for her. This is nothing likewhat her thoughts were. She was too simpleminded to thinkof such high ideas, and besides, she never paid any attentionin any of her classes. She just tried to suffer through them like,she imagined, the rest of the world did. This, though, was thedefining moment, the absolutely wonderful, horrible, terrible,and powerful idea that jumped into her brain and echoed outof her actions and voice. The manifestation of the idea to herwas relatively simple. It went something like “I wonder whathe’s thinking about.” This thought was immediately followedby “Did I just say that out loud?” The acknowledging grunt ofher partner told her three things. The first was that yes, she didsay it out loud, the second was that this song was too long and24 / Blackwater Review

that he wanted to skip romance and go straight for the jugular(though, with tongue firmly in check, the jugular was a bit higherthan his intentions). The last was that he resented her diffusedthoughts and that she had better either start playing hard toget or dispose of this body as quietly as possible. She decidedfor the latter, and performed a perfunctory “I need to go to thebathroom” type maneuver. Entirely skipping the bathroom, shewent over, ignored the engrossed couple who were now aboutfifteen minutes from “getting to know each other.” This hopefulscene entirely intruded upon his cynicism and proved quite ashock. Her apparent arrival as someone who showed interestin his being, whether it be good or not, was entirely unnaturalfor her, being a semi-popular girl who had the acquaintance ofall the popular kids. With all the falseness that she was used to,and all the darkness that he was used to, the conversation gotoff to a remarkably good start. In fact, by the end of the night,their friendship had started, and his Emersonian, narcissisticnature had already dulled to her bubbly joyous falsity. It was,overall, a match made for that moment. In fact, their son wouldlook back to that night many times.Pierson / 25

Composing with youThis sensuous samba.Counting tempoBy the allegretto drumbeatOf our hearts.The resonance of our loveCrescendosInto passionate heat.The earth tremblesAs we begin.Moving legato.The soft rise and fallOf our bodies.Obbligato,You lead,I follow.The polyrhythmic flow,Uninterrupted.Breathing in perfectSynchronicity;Until sforzando,The trembling climax.We clasp hands,TouchingLip to lip.Pianissimo - softlyDolce - sweetlyFinale – it is finished.MovementJeni Senter26 / Blackwater Review

No KnifeSharpened with mercyOnly this blunt SpoonHackingYour throbbing targetUntilVenom Voices halt.Still,Hope cradlesIn stainless steelSmoothnessRockingPumped bloodIn curved boundariesOverwhelmedAs thick Drops ( )( )( )LadleBetween my breastsAnd lingerAmong the liquidWhite DiamondsYou gave meLastSummer.HeartacheDeborah R. MajorsMajors / 27

28 / Blackwater ReviewTilesRay WillcoxThe mind covers a lot of territory in the five minutesit takes for the radiation treatment. Then the thoughtoccurs that these wide-ranging notions might indicate atruncated IQ evidenced by a short attention span. So I tryto focus on something substantial. I don’t know how muchthe techs put in the chart, but it would be embarrassing tohave “Appears to have developed a fixation for small, shinyobjects.”This is treatment number ten of forty-two. Forty-two issuch an awkward number. That means as of today, I will be 23.8percent complete, and tomorrow it will be 28.57.I’m never going to be 25 percent complete. Still, it could beworse, like 43 treatments.When the technicians go to the adjacent control roomout of the way of the radiation, things are about to begin. Thegantry swings down and to the right from directly over me. I callit the blaster although it is properly called a linear accelerator.Then I can see all the ceiling tile artwork.Patients have painted twenty five of the tiles. Thistradition started about five years ago when an artisticpatient offered to paint a couple of the tiles so others wouldhave something to look at during treatment. Patients areoffered a new ceiling tile to decorate as they please. When itis returned, it becomes part of the collection and Mark, oneof the techs who also serves as the curator, may eventuallyput it up as he changes the display from time to time.I think it was during my second treatment when Iwas only 4.47 percent complete that I asked, “Hey, Mark.Do you take a person’s tile down if they die?”He gave me an appraising look to see if I was serious. Iwas, as a matter of fact.“As far as I know, all of our patients are alive and doingwell.”

That made me laugh. “Nice answer, Mark. The next timeI see the doc, I’m going to tell Sweet Baby James what a loyalemployee you are.”Mark was nonplussed. “This part of the collection isfairly new. We had some new equipment installed, and theychanged the suspended ceiling. The old tiles wouldn’t fit anymore. We’ve still got them but just can’t put them up.”I’ve been meaning to take a look at those since he saidthat, but I never remember to when I am there. It’s too earlyin the morning for any intricate two-step thoughts. As thefirst patient of the day, I have a 7:30 appointment. I get thereabout twenty after, shuck down to my underwear in the men’sdressing room, put on two of their too-small-for-normalhumans backless gowns, one on backwards and the otherfrontwards, and stand by for the tech du jour to summonme. I asked about the two-gown routine and was told that itwas for the patient’s modesty. My theory is that it is a powerthing: it’s hard to deal from a position of power when you aredressed in hospital drag, your bony white legs hanging outand wearing sneakers.Brandy, Sherry, and Mark are three techs that I’veworked with. I don’t know if there are any others. I asked themat the appointment before radiation started, when they checkall the calculations and angles and then tattoo alignment markson your body, if you had to be named after an alcoholic beveragein order to work there. Perhaps they had heard that before.None of them reacted, so I withheld my equal opportunitysuggestions about Margarita, Mai Tai, and Ripple. The tattoosare used to put you in the same spot every time you come fortreatment.The first thing they do when I lie down on the treatmenttable is pull my boxers down to border line indecent to exposethe tattoo dots and start aligning me with the radiationmachine. Red laser looking light beams are used for the initialalignment. The fine alignment is kind of kinky, and I mighthave really enjoyed that under different circumstances. One ofthe techs, usually Brandy or Sherry, squirts some warm lotionWillcox / 29

on my lower abdomen in preparation for an ultrasound. Nice.The ultrasound locates the prostate, tells the computer, and Imay be moved a millimeter or two. Then the lotion is wiped off,they leave, and it’s show time.Today I concentrate on the tile directly in my line of visionand decide that it is my favorite. It has been painted a light shadeof purple and is evenly although not geometrically decoratedwith little pink flowers and bows. Nice complementary colors.Then, written in a large simple script across it is thisquotation from Psalms 46:1: “God is our refuge and strength.”I like that. I believed it before and I know it now.The full quotation from the Bible is “God is our refugeand strength, a very present help in times of trouble.” This lineand psalm were Martin Luther’s inspiration to write the hymn“A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” Funny to be recalling all of thisas the machine begins a twenty five second burst of radiationfrom the lower right side. Protestant martyrs often sang thishymn prior to execution.“Damn!” I say to myself. “Let’s see if you can get a littlemore morbid.” Then I quickly apologize, “Sorry, Lord. You knowI’m trying to quit cussing.”I must have said that part aloud. One of the girls comesover the intercom, “Did you say something, Mr. Willcox?”Rather than try to explain, I answer, “Did you knowJohann Strauss wrote the arrangement for ‘A Mighty FortressIs Our God’ about two hundred years after Luther wrote theoriginal hymn?” That ought to hold them for a while.Mark is older but the other techs are about the sameage as most of the students in my writing class. Incredible. I’mbeing microwaved by a bunch of kids. I already am as motionlessas a statue, and now I hold even more still.I frequently pray while I’m alone in the treatment room,but usually not for myself. I prayed for myself in Septemberwhen the doctor told me that I had an advanced case ofprostate cancer. I told the Lord that I was scared and would sureappreciate it if He got rid of this thing, but it was His call and Iwas good with it no matter what. What I pray for in these times30 / Blackwater Review

is for my daughter-in-law Laurie or sister-in-law Peggy or ourfriend Jeri, all fighting their own battles with cancer. Or I prayfor Kelly and Patty who are fighting cancer of the soul sincefinding that their closest family friend has been molesting theirtwo little daughters. I pray for Paula. She’s been my partner fornearly 38 years, and watching this is hard on her. There are lotsmore needing prayers than me to pester the Lord with my pettyself-interests although I still do occasionally.A few of the other tiles have a spiritual flavor to them butnot the majority. The biggest theme is the beach or water: a sunrise,dolphins jumping, and sand dunes. The artistic talent evidencedis very impressive. I realize that I’m seeing what the curator haschosen for the exhibit, but it is nonetheless impressive.The machine hums softly and the blaster moves from itsposition even with my waist to a 45-degree angle up to the rightfor zap number three. That blocks almost half the decoratedtiles from view. Light fixtures, fire detectors, and vents keepall the tiles from being available for artwork. Another of myfavorites is a smiley-face that uses the black circle of one of thelaser aimers for the nose. That makes the face a little off centerand the artist gave it a wry looking smile. I love it.Another hum and smiley face and Psalm 46 are hiddenas the blaster looks straight down at me. Intellectually, I knowthat you can’t feel the radiation even though each of these sevendoses is about one hundred times as strong as a chest x-ray. Butsometimes when he is straight above me, I think I can feel atingle. I asked my doctor during the first visit if anything in thetreatment was sensible, and he said “No, impossible.”All the potential side effects are limited to the site of theradiation. So far things are going well. I can’t give the doctor agood answer to increased urination frequency because I drinkcoffee and pee all day as a matter of course. In answer to hisnext question I do respond, “Why yes, doctor, I have noticed anincrease in flatulence and a bit of loosening of the stool.”I answer him back in that kind of doctor talk, but thenurse is there along with a nurse in training. What I reallywant to tell him is “Sweet ma-mau, Doc! I have been rippingWillcox / 31

off some incredible farts! I’m talking about getting 10s fromthe North Korean judges for these beauties. It creates a zoneof death out to about 20 feet on a no-wind day. Awesome. Theonly thing that keeps me from going out for the Olympics isthe loose stool business. I think they disqualify you if you shitin your pants.”Since I can’t tell him that, I just sit there thinking aboutit for a few seconds with tears in my eyes, trying not to laughout loud. When he asks if I’m okay, I just ask him again if anyonehas ever reported feeling the radiation.“No, impossible.”The machine moves to the left to give blasts four, five,and six in a mirror image of what he did on the right side. Afterthe last zap he hums his way back up to the vertical. Goodbyesmiley face and Psalms 46. I pull up my boxers and try tomodestly reposition my dueling gowns. I hate getting off thattable because there is no way to do so modestly, much lessgracefully. Well, I suppose I could roll off like a log coming off aflatbed truck. No one has indicated any interest in my inabilityto modestly dismount, but it’s the principle of the thing.Mark is adjusting the computer for the next patientand asks me again if I’m going to do a tile. I tell him that I’mstill thinking about it, and I really am. I’ve been thinking ofa few different passages from the Bible. John 3:16 has alwaysbeen a favorite of mine, but I think you have to be sitting inthe end zone of a televised football game to cite that one. Ilove the “faith, hope, and love” conclusion to 1 Corinthians 13.That would be a good one. It would be nice to do somethingencouraging for others who will be lying here. Some of thosefolks have a hard road in front of them. Part of me wants tohook up with a graphic artist and explore the possibilities ofillustrating a lethal cloud but I’m having a hard time makingthat encouraging.Maybe when I get to treatment 40 and am 95.24 percent complete, I’ll have a better idea.32 / Blackwater Review

DisplacedMatt TuckerWe live in a big white matchbox,just like everyone else in the water’s path.All those in our matchbox neighborhoodtalk of what was lost,what was saved—who was lost,who was saved.Most eyes are moist.We’ve been displaced, Mom says.Moved againlike a puzzle piecethat doesn’t quite fit anywhere.Maybe we’re in the wrong puzzle.The water evicted us this time:An impatient landlordwho gives no extensions.So we float upon the floodsin our matchbox ark,looking for dry land.The ground is never firmwhen you’ve been displaced.Tucker / 33

Shakingthe brown CavendishLike rustling leavesFrom the relic oakHe sits in the depressionWhere pieces of stuffingPoke from the holesAs he puffs on his pipePosing as thoughPugilist the BoxerReady to battle demonsBut finding insteadTime has turnedHis tobacco stained handsTo stone.HerculeanMarie Liberty34 / Blackwater Review

A Poet’s Flight of FancyThe Thoughtcomes and restsbehind my eyes.It is pleasing and profound,vivid and wise as a chin-rubfollowed by a head-nod.This perfect phrasewill chalk a sketchand lead the few (maybe more)to whisper the secretsof this pastel vision.Where’s paper?Any kind will do: napkin,movie ticket, tampon wrapper,grocery list, a dollar bill—Deborah R. MajorsI plunge my eager handinside the black hole,shoulder slung,where the coldnessof sunglasses,leather Buxton wallet,and plastic makeup pouchscolds me for tidying up the nightbefore, banishinglint, pennies, Tic-Tacs,and all paper (even gum foil).I should know better.One more dive retrieves a Bichiding in the seam—Ah!Majors / 35

I’ll use my skin to canvas the words!But I’m arrogant;I blink (once).And in the thought’s place,Griefsits behind my eyeson a straight-backed Shaker chair,head bowed low,soaking her feet in a metal foot tub,pink, yellow, and blue chalk dustslowlyswirlingupon the surface of the water,tinting her swollenankles.36 / Blackwater Review

SandpaperKyra CandellYou hold onto your qualificationsYour pride and insecurityYour works built on sand, waiting for high tideYou keep your judgments, the sterile reservationsthey’re keeping you from loveLike a couch restrained by its plastic coveryou can’t break the barrier to let others be comfortableIt risks having to patch up some tears in the futureIf you could give grace like you’ve been shownaccept that we are messy, all of usbruised like overripe fruitflawed like unrefined silverrough on the edges like old sandpaper,and know there is nothing wrong with thatCandell / 37

I was small then, a rail childMere tumbleweed, the windRattled my lungs and left meGasping for air, like loveA silent emotion movingThrough the tracks, a trainWith no passengers, NoLos Angeles was thereA place to call home, DaddyCapital D, not like mommyLower case m, you wereImportant, my iron jawedFather, God among menCreator of my dimpled chinAnd my name, LauraChild of laurels, sorrowfulOne, not as holy as MaryThe virgin, a name givenBy my mother, whisperedTo her by the angels, writtenThe day of my birth, a nameTo keep me clean, washedIn the pure blood of Jesus.Name DayMarie Liberty38 / Blackwater Review

Tortured Bliss II / Blue BoyacrylicDenielle Bergens-Harmon39

Mack BayouoilPatricia Castelain40

The First Time I Made SushiwatercolorStephanie Crow41

For the Love of the Latte Boydigital photographyPhoebe Glover42

Abstract #1watercolorMelba Thompson43

Cana LilyacrylicSharon D. James44

Cinchedraku / dyed silkAnita Hester45

Reflectiondigital imageDanielle Kelly46

Endless Powerblack and white photographyMaria B. Morekis47

ReflectionsoilMo Dao48

MilopastelJoan Kordich49

Sherry, Seated in Profilecharcoal and white conteDara North50

BlossomsoilRay Stuber51

Dreaming of Childhoodin a Time of Wardigital imageAdam Thair Stevens52

Transformationdigital imageCandice Joslin53

Sequoias IcollageBecky Word54

In the mornin’ you go gunnin’For the man who stole your waterAnd you fire till he’s done inBut they catch you at the border.And the mourners are all singinAs they drag you by your feet,But the hangman isn’t hangin’And they put you on the street.- “Do it Again” Steely DanThe Matter at HandReid TuckerIt was hot in the desert. We stood apart from each other,and I had my eyes on his head, his hat slid down low. He lookedup at me with his brown-on-brown, flat-nosed and stubblypeasant’s face. He looked older than his twenty-six years. I’msure I did too. I could see him sweat, a waste he could no longerafford. I could hardly believe what I had said. It was a real pisscutter of a spot we were in, and I would do what I had to, butafter it was all said and done with, we were friends. More thanthat: partners.“C’mon now, Frank, y’know it’s the only way,” I mumbled.“I c-can’t b’lieve that, Eli. It-it aint nobody’s fault thatthem fornicating horses ran off in the night like they did…but they did, an’ we gotta work together on this or it’s gon’ getmuy mal out here.” He sort of blushed, not that I cared. He wasalways real careful to mask over his ma’s half of who he waswhen he spoke, though it was plainer than hell to anyone hisname was rightly Francisco. Sometimes when he got excitedFrank would start to run his words together, like it did thistime, and that last “here” got drug high up in his mouth intoa “heeeer.” I guess I was the only person Frank ever met thatdidn’t get bothered by him being a half-breed, and when you’rehalf Mexican that really makes you at least a quarter Indian anda quarter Catholic. You’re superstitious by course of nature,whether you like it that way or not.Tucker / 55

“Work together! You were the one supposed to havecovered Ish when he went up to the door!” I screamed throughmy splitting lips.“Th, that’s a whole different deal, Eli. You weren’t supposedto go in first. The kid was to hold everyone down while you was inthe back getting the money, but you went and changed the planon me. How could I cover him? I didn’t have a clear shot withouthittin’ one of the people in the bank! I didn’t know what was goin’on…till, till it was over with.” He always had excuses, even whenwe was kids. Now it was different.Frank got this real sullen look about him. He was the bestrifle I knew, but that didn’t stop him from not covering my kidbrother Ishmael back at the bank. The kid wanted to be the one tokick in the door, wanted to prove, to me, I guess, that he was justas much some kind of hard case as his big brother. Yeah. He wasn’teven supposed to have been there in the first place, but when Icame home to make peace with Pa about all the years between us,it didn’t go nowhere. It never did with the old man. Slap drunk asalways, he was half-dead looking now. I hadn’t seen my old manin six years. I got right hot and stormed back to the hotel whereFrank had gotten us some rooms. Ish had went ahead of me; he’drun away, just like I had.“Pa’s a drunk,” he had kept saying; God knows the windwouldn’t let me forget his eyes staring at his toes. “I hate him onaccount of what he put you through with all the drinkin’, Eli, andhow he treated me after you left.”That had just about killed me there. Sure, our old man hadbeaten me good more time’n I’d care to count, but what had hedone to my brother over the span of those six years that I’d beengone? It was one of those things where a man don’t think and can’tthink. I didn’t know what was worse, to tell the kid that there wasnothin’ for him riding with us, nothin’ for ourselves, really, or tobring him along. Frank was well past run down drunk and hadspilled the plan to Ish before I got there, and when my kid brother,barely sixteen, looked me straight in the eyes like a man and saidthat he was in for the bank because he was in with me, I couldn’thelp but grab his skinny back and cling to him. I held my brother56 / Blackwater Review

close to me, not since he was little had I hugged him like that. Iclapped Ish on the back. I saw him wince. Frank smiled and pulledout a brace of tumblers and a bottle, and we made our plans to hitthe bank.I stared off, squinting at the sun and could feel the itchingdryness start to grow in my throat. We were still a long way fromMexico, and not far enough out of the reach of the territory’s lawmen.“Eli, you all right? The sun’s getting high and . . . ” Hetrailed off.He knew I wanted him dead because he had let my brotherget killed but couldn’t do it just yet. There was still too much groundto cover, and without the horses there wasn’t much we could do.Not much I could do, that is. Frank was the damn local boy; he’dgrown up around the pueblos south of the desert. It’d been twodays without the horses, since they had run off with all the foodand my rifle and Frank’s and most all the water. We only had leftwhatever was in the canteens and I had give most of mine to Ishwhile he lay there dying, his guts shot through. I don’t want to gothat way. It wasn’t a pretty thing to see.I turned back around on Frank; I had gotten over my spellfor the moment. I looked him dead in the eyes, said, “I guess wedon’t have much of a choice, here. Looks like you’re right, Frank.” Iturned around and put my hand to my brow, as if I expected to seeevery deputy sheriff in two territories ride over the hill. “I guesswe have to keep on going.”He looked a little better, his eyes a little less rheumy anda little wider. He still spoke haltingly. “I know, Eli. It’s this desertand that sun. It’s getting to me, too. We just have to keep on forthe border. That storm threw ‘em off our trail for sure. Once weget to Mexico, to Los Conches, then we’ll be all right.” He smileda little at me. The sun made it look more like a sneer. Just as wellwith me.He moved over a little closer to me and clapped meon the back, like he used to when we were twelve and had justmet. Frank and I made fast friends. It was better that way; I hadalways thought don’t sweat the details. Ish had shown me allabout the details.Tucker / 57

“Ish was like a brother to me too, Eli. You can’t killyourself over it; it was just one of them things. There wasn’tnothing you could’ve done. He was so excited, cierto? He didn’tknow what was at stake. He didn’t keep his nose clean, didn’tlook out for trouble. You got to watch your back, Muchacho.Es la verdad.”I looked up at him and he could see the red around myeyes. “That was your job . . . mine,” I whispered more than saidout loud. It hurts so bad for your eyes to water out here, evena little. That sun is just awful, almost white it was so hot in thesky, and I could feel my eyelids burn. When that happens youreyes got no choice but to water; it’s just how a man is made. Itwas the sun. Nothing else.“Let’s go.”I smiled at him, only half meaning it, and my lip startedto bleed a little. It dried almost instantly, caked on over thedust. He turned around slowly and grabbed his sleeping bagfrom the ground beside the acacias we had slept under, and Icould see that his brow was still a little crooked. I had gotten tohim bad when I had told him what would have to happen whenone of us ran out of water. He still wore that deer-horn handledknife, and I recalled he wasn’t one to share. After Ish died, I findI’m not no Good Samaritan, neither.We put that trouble behind us for the moment andwalked into the hellish midmorning light, gathered up whatlittle provisions we had left and just started walking. Just likewe had for two days. Thank God I still had my compass. It didget a little cracked, though, but it still worked. We were headedin a southeasterly direction, but I’d catch myself start to driftto one side or the other after a while, almost like I was noddingoff while I was still walking. Frank was somewhere to my left, Iwasn’t sure exactly, but I had a feeling that after this morningI would want him to be in front of me and to the right, and Ithink he would just as soon have me in the same spot, but itwasn’t going to happen, I would make sure he stayed in front.I had to stay upright, awake, or else he might get nervous, andI didn’t need that right now; I had too much to think about, or58 / Blackwater Review

so I thought. I shook my head, tried to throw off some of thetiredness, but it was down in my bones so it stayed and turnedto lead inside me.It’s funny how the sun dances like a little white needlein your eyes, even when you lower your head. It’s just like a nailfrom a bucket of ice water only it’s in between your eyebrowsand there’s no hammer’ll pull it out. Water. Now that soundedgood. I’d even drink around the nails. The desert makes youtaste things; it’s a funny deal, really. It starts with a little gritin your throat, back beyond where your fingers can reach, andwhen you go to swallow, you realize you can’t and then it stopsplaying its little tickling game, and then you dry-gag until yousnort some snot in the roof of your mouth and then it tastesjust as awful as you might imagine. It tasted like the sun hadmelted and had let itself mix together with all the dirt and rockand blood in the world all rolled in a ball down to that spotyou can’t reach and then it stays there. I thought I might die.Looking up, I saw him there, not swaying half so bad, and knewI couldn’t. Not yet.You hear things out here too. We stopped about duskunder the burnt orange shade of the one rock outcroppingwe could find and moved with the shadow. We just kind oflay there and rolled over to the newly darkened spots. Whenred things get shadowed over at dusk they turn purple, like achancre. We didn’t say nothing to each other. I tried to sleep abit, though I knew I shouldn’t. My concerns won out and so Ilay there on the baked but cooling orange sand with a little rockin my back. I was too tired to move and watched through eyeslike slits in canvas what my old buddy Frank was doing. He onlysnored and didn’t seem all that bad off, leastways not worriedabout much, it seemed. His lips didn’t look quite as swollen asmine. The brim of his hat bounced a bit when he exhaled andhis earth-bleached poncho floated in the air like a windowsillhummingbird around the edges of the hem. So I listened towhat the sun and the dust were trying to tell me.Some of it sounded like my old man slamming down aflagon or a board across my back or my own nightly screams asTucker / 59

a child when he’d been drinking. The wind played a little breezefor me, and I could almost hear the hushed, smiling whispers ofa girl I knew one time, not long after I left home. We had lookedat each other after we were done, and she put her hand on mychest and swirled the sweat around and gotten right close upagainst me and told me she loved me. Her hair was on my chestand it smelt like cinnamon and autumn leaves. I knew I didn’tfeel the same way, that it was just too good an afternoon andtoo nice a shade tree with grass beneath it too cool to pass up. Ihad left town the next day, and she had cried for me and I stilldidn’t never look back. A man don’t get anyplace looking overhis shoulder, though that was just what we had been doing,Frank and I. We hid from our own pasts. He never knew his oldman, but knew he was white. We was always on the run fromsomething. This was supposed to be the big breakout job.The plan was a simple one, it seemed at the time: wewould wait for the wagon from back east to come with the goldbars and new fresh-pressed money for the safe. It only came totown every few months, though I tried to hide these reasonsfor my homecoming from Ish. Once the gold and money wasunloaded, it usually took the bank workers at least three hoursto get everything straight, and on those days they didn’t openuntil the goods was all locked up. Basically, we hit them whenthe doors first opened: 12:00, straight up noon. Hell, it wasperfect, the confusion and all. Even Ish was excited, though itmay have been because that was the first time he’d ever beendrunk. Hell, we was all drunk. We could count the moneyalready, me most of all, now that Ish was with me again. I wouldhead down to Mexico, buy me up a nice hacienda by the coastand find a woman who knew how to cook and was worth beingfaithful to and give my brother a home he could love.Thinking about my brother got the sun’s attention, andit drummed up the wind to howl in my ear like my brother’svoice in the night when he was little and had a nightmare.He’d come to me and I would take him back to bed, tuck himin. That was before I left home. It was Frank’s idea, though Ihad thought about it plenty. That was back before Ma died of60 / Blackwater Review

the fever and Pa took to seeing the world in various shades ofamber from out the bottom of a tumbler. It’s no wonder thatIsh wanted to get out. I did. The old man was meaner than ascalded dog when he was in the mash and he tended to staythat way. I guess we all grieve differently. Mostly what it is,is that when you lose something that’s a part of you, you fillit up with something else. Unfortunately for me and Ish thathappened to be whiskey for Pa. For me, it was the plains andthe sky and a gun. For Ish it was nothing, because he nevergot the chance to really hold nothin’ dear and close and tightagainst his heart. The man whose fault it was lay snoring nearto me in the eddying twilight. I watched him again.Frank just kept on lying there, and the sun started to godown earnestly, and I decided I might as well see if there wasn’ta rabbit or a bird or a snake or anything around that could beeaten. I still had my gun, at least. I could still kill something.The horses had Frank’s rifle. I think he must’ve been born withthat thing in his hands; it was a pristine Henry lever .45. Hehad worn it on his back the day I first met him, along with thatcrazy shaman-knife. He probably killed whoever he took itfrom; you don’t just find stuff like that when you’re twelve. Henever missed, excepting when he didn’t shoot at all. I turnedback to look at him and he was still asleep, though he had rolledover to the left some and he had stuffed a little more of hisponcho underneath his head. I still had my gun and Frank stillhad his poncho, so I guess we were even. I left my coat in thedesert a long way back. I couldn’t stand the smell of it with mybrother’s blood all over it, especially in the desert where youcan’t even smell your own self rot, which by now must’ve surelybeen underway. I reached up and rubbed my chin, noticed mynails were jagged and two on my left hand were bleeding frombeing cracked in the sun.I looked around the little copse ahead and saw a prettygood sized jackrabbit leap up from under a burnt-out bushand saw it dash across the rocks to a hole near where I wasstanding. My hand went for the revolver and I pivoted on myright, stiffened up my left foot and slipped a little. The dyingTucker / 61

sun came down and smacked my eyeballs like an anvil, and therabbit took his chance and ran straight between my legs to thelittle hole in the boulder. Oh, well, other rabbits out there, and Ihadn’t had to waste a shot. Only had five left after the bank. Wehad to fight our way out. That’s one reason why I usually don’tget too drunk; when a man’s drunk, he tends to not hear howloud his voice carries. It was an ambush at the bank, thoughFrank didn’t want to believe it. I put the gun back in the holsterand started to walk off when I heard an unusual sound: coinsagainst a countertop. It sounded hollow and full, like an apple,maybe. My eyes narrowed and I ducked behind the rock therabbit had run underneath, ducked down and watched Frankroll over, I could hear it in the stillness of the sunset, a fainttinkling, like metal against the stone underneath him. Theknife? I crouched and waited and he did not move. I didn’t hearthe sound again. My stomach growled and I got up to look foranother rabbit. I found one, blew his head clean off.Frank woke up when he heard the shot. A thoughtoccurred to me later as I watched Frank eat the rabbit’s left leghow ridiculously uncomfortable he looked in that big poncho.He was never without that poncho; it looked pretty out of placeon him, since he didn’t have a sombrero like a proper caballero,I had always ribbed him about that, that he only had an oldslouch hat and all proper Mexicans have sombreros. Only Icould say something like that to Frank. I told him he could hidea mama bear in that thing it was so big and brown and stinky,why, I bet you could hide anything in it. That tinkling soundedagain as he moved to poke the fire. He froze up and he wincedlike he hurt himself slightly and I didn’t say anything, justchewed on a piece of meat, but I knew and he knew.We had, as of that evening, one whole coffee cup worthof water left, and we were still somewhere in the desert, noidea where, just nowhere near to the river or consequently theborder. There was still no sign of the horses. All that work wasfor nothing, I guess, since the horses had all the money wehad managed to lift from the bank just thrown up in bags andstrapped across their backs, plain as day for the whole world to62 / Blackwater Review

see. I would kill to see those horses again. I’d kill to see anyoneagain, anything, to feel anything other than that empty coppercoin in my mouth telling me that if we didn’t find water wewere as good as dead. Mostly, though, I just wanted to be out ofthis desert. I didn’t speak to Frank. He knew I hadn’t forgotten,only that I suspected what he was hiding. I hadn’t seen it, nordid I have any real proof for that matter, only that you’d thinkthat two men who’d grown up together and rode together for solong and been through so much would have a little somethingto say to each other, since it appeared as though we were asgood as dead as you could legally be. Any half-decent excuse,God. Please. Just let me know for sure, and that’s all, even morethan the horses or water or money or anything else, just let meknow for sure.We walked on a ways more, since we had rested mostof the afternoon and the night was as relatively comfortableas it could be. The desert was still bad, but it was just bearableenough to taunt a man with his life and how thin the stringthat kept his backside out of the devil’s teeth. Maybe. I sippedthe tiniest thimbleful of water into my parchment dry throat,swollen now so that I felt like some kind of bullfrog puffinghimself up. I had to stop thinking like that, all these things todo with water. It was how I knew I was dying.I could see in the mid-dusk haze that Frank was indeedahead of me and slightly off center. All right, but I must’vebeen walking the same way, a plodding lope. It had to havebeen this way for a long time but I never thought about it tillnow, how little a man has to actually think about walking. Hejust sort of does it, on and on forever, past the blisters on hislittle toes and the loss of feeling in his ankles and that same icepickpiss-cutting sun. I looked up and saw the clouds at night,and there were no stars, no bright spots in that black quilt,just rows and rows of phantom whispers that hid our shapesas we made our way through the desert calm. It was dim in thenight with no moon, and the world was a strange shade of graythat seeped down into your bones and lumped together withthe tiredness that was already and always there, and togetherTucker / 63

they slogged into the sand that clung at our feet as we walked. Itried to swallow. It didn’t work and I stopped, gagging, retched,fell to my knees and hacked, hacked till blood heaved up onthe ground. The dust didn’t begin to swirl. I could feel Frankstanding there, and as he got closer I could see his boot there infront of me. In the darkness it looked like everything was thesame color, a deadened, dusty gray-brown. His boot looked likethe frayed maw of a tomb.“Eli,” was all he said, and I looked up slowly at him. Hehad a nervous look on his face, the worst I’d ever seen him, theworst way a man can look when things get bad. I’d never seenhim this bad.“Yeah,” I croaked, again with the frogs. Water. I retchedagain, but he just stood there. I think he must’ve known that ifhe bent over to help me up, he might never stand up again. Itwas exactly what I was thinking. Unless . . . unless my suspicionswere true. I might almost forgive him for all that had happenedif he would help me up. God, at least don’t let me die on myknees. I stood up as best I could, trembling in the warmth of theevening before my oldest and best friend in the world. “What.Were. You. Gonna. Say?”“I just, you fell and, well . . . ” I saw his hand movehesitantly toward his waist, but stopped at the hem of hisponcho and gripped it, like he was holding on for dear life. Iguess he was, but my life too. “We’ve been walking most of thenight, Eli. The sun’ll be up in an hour or two. Maybe you betterrest some.”“Rest!” I coughed. I wiped more blood off the back ofmy hand. “For what? Why lay down and die in your sleep whenI could die walking?” His eyes darted down to his boots. Hishand still gripped his poncho. I wiped the blood on my pantsand dust puffed up. He was right, though; you could see thesun starting to wake up across the flat. I hoped it was good andrested up. I had a feeling today would be the day. I glanced upat the sky. “None yet, but they’ll be here soon.”“W-what’s that, Eli?”I laughed. It hurt bad, and he broke a little smile on64 / Blackwater Review

his face, a little secret-keeping smile, and his lips were barelychapped. I could see it now clearly, despite the wind and thedimness of the coming dawn. Did he think I was that stupid?“What’s that?” I hacked. “The buzzards, Hermano.”He blanched, got even duskier, said, “Why did you goand say that? It’s not enough that I have to think it, too.” What,Frank, Ish or the buzzards? Christ.“What’s the problem, Camarada?” I said, finally recoveredenough to stand up straight. I looked him in the eye again, likeI hadn’t since we were kids, and there was nothing between usexcept a trust you only have when you’re a boy that your bestfriend is more than your blood; he’s other people’s blood toyou and that, I had learned, was stronger than anything, thattrust. Shame I didn’t have that kind of faith any longer. “Yougot some kind of problem with things living? The buzzards’ gotto eat,” I said shooting a glance at the ground and then glaringin his face, “same as the worms.”His hand came away from his poncho. “What exactly doyou mean?”“What I mean exactly is that I’m going to die. Or you are,too. We’ve been three days without the horses, and the wholeplan went to hell, and that’s a shame, a real shame, because wecould’ve made off like bandits.” I thought bitterly that anyonewho would’ve heard me say that just now might have laughed. Isaw my brother’s face in the haze. I didn’t think it was funny.Frank got a little bolder, yelled, and spit, honest to thegentle Jesus, spit hit my jaw. “And what? What? It’s my faultyou didn’t grab all the money? That we got away at all afterthe kid messed everything up is a miracle. Who ever heard ofjust running in the door someplace, not even looking around?I could see the shine on that deputy’s badge from the hillthrough naked sights!”That did it for me, right there. The sky was beginningto see a tinge of color, and I narrowed my eyes. “I knew youcould see the deputy, that you just didn’t shoot. You could’vesaved my brother’s life! He looked up to you, Frank; he trustedyou.”Tucker / 65

“He was dead already when he took up with you, Cabron!”He screamed, spittle that I couldn’t muster flying in my face,and his voice spilled into a stream of Spanish I couldn’t follow,then, “Why don’t you heap a little of this blame on yourself,Eli? He was your brother, sabes? Not that that meant much toyou, Cobarde, you—you coward. Back there with all the money,you didn’t even come running at the sound of a shot! He waslaying on the floor and you were in the vault and you still didn’tget all the money! Whose fault is all this?”I hated that he was right. The wind let me know it,too. It moaned beyond the line of the desert, and I felt for mycompass, saw Frank tense up. Not yet, you dog, not yet. I’ll notdraw yet. I’m not through with you. I was fast, and he knew.“Why don’t you show me what you got under thatponcho, Frank? Maybe I’ll help,” I said as I fished in my pocketfor the compass. Where was it? I averted my eyes from Frank,peered down at my desert-blasted pants and opened the pocketas wide as it would go. The compass wasn’t there. No telling howlong we’d walked through the night, no telling where it mighthave fallen out, but it clearly wasn’t here anymore. That madethe situation all the better. Now I had no idea where we were.Not a soul in creation for who knows how far in any directionexcept me and Frank and looking up I got the feeling that thecount was going to be down by one. And fast.Frank had this crazy look to him. Like he had seensomething ugly but couldn’t look away. He knew for sure whatit meant, now, that there was no compass. But he still must’vethought he had an edge, the edge that I was dying to get a holdof myself. I stared him down as the first rays of the sun creptover the top of the hills. The sun was in my eyes and I squinted,spat. That was the first spit I’d had in days. It hurt like hell –sandpaper and salt.“What happened to the compass, Eli?”“What have you got under that poncho?”He didn’t say anything. Neither did I.“It’s not what you think…”My eyes opened wide, took in the full breadth of the66 / Blackwater Review

sun, a rail iron in my eye. He moved slowly and threw the ponchoback, like he would do if he was drawing a gun, only I knew hedidn’t have one; it was back on the horse, wherever in hell thatwas. I saw it there, just as I had thought, the big leather waterpouch with the fat tin mouthpiece, the one that had laid acrossthe back of the horse. “It’s exactly what I thought, Frank. You werewaiting for me to die so you could take the compass and get out.You let the horses go, didn’t you?” His eyes went wide. “I knew itwas too much to believe that the wind had just blown over thatlimb they was tied off to. The same reason why you let Ish die, andthe same reason why you were going to let me rot alive out here,while you nursed that skin and got out of the desert. You’d neverhave to split the money with a soul, assuming you could find thehorses, but you knew right where they would go; you’re fromaround here, after all. You probably met up with some of your oldpals before we met back at the hotel, didn’t you? You might havehad to share some of the gold with them, but you’re too good ashot for that, and too fast with that knife. Everyone has to sleep,is that it?” He kept staring, like he expected me to say, “Whathappened to you, Frank?” like I still cared about the condition ofhis soul. Francisco Juan Pacifico-Ramirez was a dead man.His mouth quavered a little in the heat and he started tospeak, but didn’t. It was time to settle the matter at hand. I couldsee a tear beginning to form in the corner of his right eye. Whata foolish waste.His mouth contorted in an awful sneer, and he got a worselook in his eyes and he leapt at my throat with a snarl, swungout his knife, wide, missed me by a good deal. I ducked back andhe lunged forward. My hand went to the handle of the revolver,and I brought it up from the hip; it shone dull and dead in thesun, and I held my arm at a firm right angle with my finger alongthe barrel, pointed square at his chest, and in one swift motioncocked the gun back, pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in myhand, and I fanned the hammer two quick times with the triggerheld down and the cordite flew in my face and the sun came upfully and though I squinted I couldn’t see Frank anymore, onlyheard him land with a hiss on the sand in front of me.Tucker / 67

When the smoke and dust cleared I saw Frank on hisknees, still gripping his knife, his mouth frothing over withreddened spittle and his lower lip quivered while he mouthedsomething unintelligible, sounded like “Uno mas, Cabron.” Onemore, bastard.He was quiet, quit shaking. The three shots had torn arough triangle out of his stomach and chest big enough to seethrough. Blood had mixed with the dirt all in front of him. My.45 had done the trick.I smirked, confident despite my exhaustion, and my lipsbled. I only held the smirk for a second, and then I stopped.Because through the hole in him I saw the sand get wet behindhim and it wasn’t red. Then I looked at him, gasped, notbelieving it, looked at the gun in my hand, saw the one bulletleft and looked back at him. His eyes rolled over and looked likeeggs in his sockets. Then he smiled with his bad teeth like thedevil must smile and he died.68 / Blackwater Review

From Beyond a Cobalt SunReid TuckerLet the stars of the twilight thereof be dark: Let it look for light, but havenone; neither let it behold the eyelids of the morning. – Job 3:9Far past the deep dimness of the morning we knew,There is a stirring along the wind we call a dream,A twinkling light in the folds of sleep,A spark, a crackling caress, and I awake.The peristaltic shiver of untold heats and pressuresAre nothing here in this coffin-enclosureHurtling down unknown roads away from you.I’m sweating. I gasp for breath, shivering in the void.It’s quiet and cold without, but it’s the silence inside thathurts,The quiet in the dark that kills, strapped against the speed.Here I am; me and the rest of the sleeping ones.Dreams don’t come out here so neither does rest.Even if you change, even if I’m somehow different by the endof thisI still need you, love.More than duty, more than peace or breath, more than theearth that was;Because you’re everything.And so I close my eyes and float along the wind we call adream,Down into circling, wakeful sleep.Like the staring eyelids of morning that wasI glare into a future of necessityBeyond the distant, cobalt-shaded sun.Tucker / 69

70 / Blackwater ReviewLast CallThomas LeightonRaise your glass, friend, before you goTo twilight at the Golden HornOur days are always like thisEndless hours merging seamlessly with one another likegrains of sandFiltered through cracked, yellowed glass and trailing dustIn the haze of afternoon sunlight, and in shadowVestiges drifting beneath the door to mingle like ghosts in thenightComfort wears like weathered oak on my fingertipsUnvarnished by the passing of ages and careless transientsSpilling, carving, restless, always on their wayOr the regulars who’ve traded their tomorrows for todayNever look too closely at the faces in the crowdDrink with us; be with us, live as we do before everythingmelts away againAnd there are only desperate souls seeking answers to thequestions that plague themWe are of a mind, those of us who drink together in this placeTogether in laughter, in easy camaraderieTogether in destruction, each of us dying privately, quietlyUnited under smoke and solitude, the brotherhood of the barThe distance in our eyes as cold and vast as the space aroundthe starsWe are all just marking timeSearing, falling, remembering halcyon days we can neverreach againThe lights wink out one by one at the Golden HornBut the music plays on in my mind, trailing haunting chordslike weeping angelsSuch joy, such boundless sorrow

The endless, rapturous noise of all my murdered tomorrowsI’ll wait till sunlight spills through those narrow, brokenwindows againCounting the hours and days, tracing forever the frayingthread of conversationThe scarred and battered wood beneath my fingertipsAnd the song, the beautiful song that echoes always in mymindThe voices of angels, despairing of lost Eden, and theknowledge that I am never aloneSo raise your glass, friend, and drink to eternityDrink to you and me, to the times we’ve had and all those yetto comeTo easy days, to long nights in the company of fellows*First place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial PoetryContest, 2008Leighton / 71

72 / Blackwater ReviewWe Live by the Sparkling SeaMaria Geneve SteeleNot twenty yards from Ms. Luci’s beach house poorAaron splashed in the water, letting the filth from his bodyform oily rings around him, like rings of Saturn. He leapt fromthe water to grasp at things invisible and in doing so, revealedhis nakedness. He waved with both hands above his head andimitating him exactly, Ms. Luci waved back.Aaron was striking, with skin like dark honey pouredover lean musculature, long dreadlocks and gray eyes thatreflected the passive green of our water, or the cool Caribbeanblue of our sky, or the sugary blond of our beaches.But these physical attributes did not impress the LuciCompany Caterers who, despite the early morning hour, werealready setting up for Ms. Luci’s eightieth birthday party, totake place that evening. Thinking of the summer tourists andMs. Luci’s house guests, the caterers called the police.Officer Beal, a large pasty man in his mid-forties, arrivedand greeted the Luci Company Caterers with a nod and a somberlook in the direction of poor naked Aaron. The officer’s rayonblue suit stretched across his ever-expanding midsection. Hetalked very seriously, but he still had flecks of powdered donuton his lips. As he spoke, bits of donut fell down his wobbly chin,onto his suit, onto the ground. Like many people who cannotafford to properly feed their sense of entitlement, Officer Bealate copious amounts of tasty junk. He ate to release the samechemicals that might be released on an expensive vacation orwalking through the entrance into one’s own lavish home.The officer’s presence did not seem to detour Aaron;he continued to splash and throw his head back to laugh,though no sound emerged. The officer looked at Ms. Luci in herwheelchair; she was swaddled in a white nightgown. He stoodakimbo, all but forgetting his purpose. He began talking to thecaterers about his boyhood, about his days spent in Ms. Luci’shouse when she was a handsome woman, a tall solid brunette

who looked strong enough for farm work, even in a silk dress.He said that his own father knew Ms. Luci well and he pausedto add quietly, “In the Biblical sense.”At her society parties a young and then-wiry Beal was leftalone to crawl beneath furniture and to eat whatever he liked andto throw fits until an adult would let him sip their bourbon orgin. The officer chuckled to himself remembering these things.Officer Beal thought of himself as a kind of rambunctiousOpie turned reliable Andy in our sandy Mayberry. No one elsethought of him this way.Seeing that the officer was otherwise absorbed, Aaronsquatted in the shallow water, defecated, and then rolled himselfto shore, plastering his body with saltwater foam and sand. Hestood up and gave the group an eyeful, thrusting his hips backand forth, wildly gyrating and swinging his arms left and rightto get momentum going. His sand-caked private part seemedlike a thing detached from him, something that attacked himviolently. At this Officer Beal gave chase.The two ran along the beach for several minutes withincreasing distance between them until finally the officer slowedto a stop, looked left and right and then took something fromhis pocket and began to chew.Officer Beal returned to Ms. Luci’s house and leanedagainst—guarded—the telephone post, which he knew to be afavorite spot for Aaron. A year earlier, Ms. Luci had protestedthe telephone post, which came within inches of her front lawnand was by all accounts aesthetically stale. This argument was,at least publicly, our town’s greatest embarrassment. A terribledisgrace for me who has done so much for all of you, she hadsaid, her words forming around us like black tar.But in her physical and influential decline, she lost.To make things worse for the old woman, troubled Aarontook a liking to the new post, rubbing himself against it so oftenthat much of the bottom portion was stained with his seed.This, of course, was unacceptable. Still, his cries when hauledaway–disparaging moans–made many onlookers envious. Love,it seems, needs none of our logic.Steele / 73

Later in the morning Ms. Luci’s house guests woke slowlyand came to say hello, giving her quick kisses on the cheek andrunning to the beach, wiping her old smell from their noses.They first appeared several months ago, when Ms. Luci wentstill: chatty aunties and drowsy uncles, first, second and thirdcousins, distant cousins of cousins and twice removed personsof people once known.If the guests behaved well it was only because Ms. Luci’sdoctor said that more often than not and especially with newmedicines, catatonics wake up. So the family tiptoed aroundher as if her eyes were video cameras, filming things that wouldsurely be played back.Still, when there were no adults in sight, the smallerchildren would climb on Ms. Luci like a jungle gym. Theygrabbed her frizzy hair to help themselves up; they clutchedat her breasts and found them far too loose for support. Theypoked and pinched at her craggy skin and stared at her for along time, playing a game. They pointed at objects far in thedistance and tried to turn her head to look. Sometimes, if alittle one was tired, they fell asleep on her lap, rested theirheads on her chest and snored gently for a few minutes beforea parent snatched them up, leaving a film of perspiration thatcooled as it dried.The older children were not so kind. They tookadvantage of the fact that the only movements or sounds Ms.Luci made were imitations. There are medical terms for thesesymptoms–echopraxia, echolalia–but the children did notknow this, or care.Occasionally an adolescent boy would stand before Ms.Luci and throw a punch, coming so close to her nose that hisknuckles tingled. Just as suddenly, Ms. Luci would throw herfist forward. The boy would add to his repertoire, saying loudly,“Hi-ya!...Hi-ya!” and be met with a predictable response: theold woman, yelling like Bruce Lee. This sent the boy and hisfriends howling, rolling on the ground.If Ms. Luci would not play this game, then they wouldpose her extremities, making her give a military salute with74 / Blackwater Review

ight hand to forehead or worship the Almighty with both handsthrown up. More commonly, though, they made her say FuckYou to the world with both gnarled middle fingers upright. Ifthe children were not run off by Ms. Luci’s caretaker or a soberadult, the old woman was liable to stay in these poses for hoursat a time.Most days, though, were quiet, with Ms. Luci parked atthe edge of the lanai, in the shade of a live oak, her gray hair likeSpanish moss falling past her shoulders, her bare feet planted inthe sand. Surrounding her were neatly trimmed shrubs of juniper,prickly pear and American beautyberry. Above her was an archof coral vine and hanging lantana. Oxblood lilies bloomed. Ms.Luci’s head was tilted to the side as if she was always listening tothe ground, but her eyes remained fixed on the sea.Tourists strolled by to admire her beautiful home. Theydid not know that she once owned a bank, that much of thetown was named for her: Rue d’ Luci, Luci Mart, Luci’s Gas-N-Go, Salon Luci` and so on and so forth. This naming scheme wasa way for locals to offer her thanks for loaning them money and,too, a testament of the would-be businessmen who knew her, inthe Biblical sense.In the afternoon a storm formed just offshore, and theleaves of the live oak flipped to reveal their pale underside. TheLuci Company Caterers put the meat on an outside fire, and thethick scent filled the air. Saliva pooled in Ms. Luci’s mouth anddripped leisurely down her cheek.Ms. Luci’s caretaker, a middle-aged woman called Lila,who scheduled her days–and thus Ms. Luci’s days–around thelatest reality television shows, came to feed her a thin soup. AsLila worked she whispered the latest gossip:“Aaron was here this morning, naked. You know, he’sbeen ordered to stay away from your property and the telephonepole. But you can’t tell a schizoid to stay away. I mean, it’s notlike the telephone pole can get a restraining order.” And Lilalaughed out loud at her own joke.Lila began to comb the old woman’s hair and told herthe same story again, about how last week Aaron had found theSteele / 75

telephone pole plastered with flyers advertising local bands, bars,strip joints and, strangely, Ms. Luci’s eightieth birthday party.Some of the local kids caught news of the party and planned tocrash it, calling it LollapaLuci, what else? But Aaron raged, tearingthe flyers from the pole and shredding them, making a mess allover Ms. Luci’s front lawn. Aaron had punched and kicked thetelephone pole and then pushed against it for a solid hour andthen, in what seemed to be a guilt-ridden apology, knelt besideit and wept.“Poor thing,” added Lila, which was her way ofacknowledging both Ms. Luci and Aaron.She was tying Ms. Luci’s hair in a loose bun when sheheard a raspy voice behind her. “Aren’t you two the picture ofloveliness?” he said, and Lila felt a wet kiss on the back of herneck. A chilly tongue like a snake’s flickered twice. Amo, Ms.Luci’s attorney, was making his visit. “How is it that I could havelet such a pretty woman go all those years ago?” says Amo to Lila,trying to catch her eye and give her a wink. He seated himself onthe bench beside Ms. Luci.“Maybe it’s because I turned twenty,” said Lila, and withthis she gathered the bowl, spoon and hairbrush and quickly left.Amo chuckled to himself, leaned into Ms. Luci andsaid, “Before you, old girl, I was a good man.” If this is true, noevidence exists.He had come as always to ensure things were in goodorder, that the so called family members were quietly enjoyingtheir stay and not making claims to M. Luci’s property. Notthat they could: in her will Ms. Luci provided only for her ownmeticulous upkeep and then, after her death, for the meticulousupkeep of her property.Amo felt age gnawing at him and was the one tosuggest a birthday party for Ms. Luci, for all our residents.Amo remembered the days when he was inculpable byassociation, when he swam in a steady stream of fleshy,experimental girls. His old worm rose slightly to pay homageto these memories but then, predictably, flopped back down.It is precisely this predicament that started Amo wishing76 / Blackwater Review

for Ms. Luci to wake again, as if he might reclaim his formervirility with her consciousness.Ms. Luci groaned, like she could hear his thoughts,and he put his hand over hers to quiet her. The storm was stilloff a good distance; he could see sheets of rain falling overthe ocean to the west. It rarely rains here. The sea churns upweather, lifts it up and up and then over us to the small townsand forests to the north.The afternoon heat had made Amo drowsy, and he tooka handkerchief from his jacket to wipe his forehead. He wishedLila liked him enough to bring him iced tea. The winds stoppedand the smoke from cooking meat covered them and soakedinto his suit. Amo removed his jacket and folded it next to him.He covered his mouth to cough.In the distance through the smoke he saw a wild-lookingAaron wearing a pair of stolen Hawaiian-print shorts, too baggyfor his thin frame. He was making his way down the beach,sniffing the air. Amo knew the young man well since they oncelived in the same neighborhood. This was when Aaron was thenonly son of a nice family, before his disease bore wormholesthrough his brain.Aaron approached quickly, ten yards away, then five.Amo stood and shouted, as if to a stray dog, “Get outta here.Scat!” but already Aaron was standing in front of him.They stood so close that Amo could smell the patchouliin his hair. There was an earthy woman who fed our fewhomeless downtown. She took a special liking to beautifulAaron, tenderly rolling his dreadlocks with oil whenever hecame around for a meal.When Aaron first made lucky with the telephone post,Ms. Luci purchased a small pistol and confided in Amo her fullintentions “to blow out the brains of that filthy mulatto mutt.”Amo tried to imagine the pistol and wished he knew where itwas. In fact, he was terrified. The young man was full grownand stood a foot above him.“I’m calling the cops,” said Amo finally, but even he didnot believe these words. Aaron threw his head back to laugh,Steele / 77

ut no sound emerged. Ms. Luci did the same. Amo turned toher and when he turned back Aaron had snatched his jacketand was running down the beach, waving it high above his headas if flying a kite. Ms. Luci, clutching something invisible in herhands, did the same.“Aren’t you a pair!” said Amo and he brought thehandkerchief to his mouth to cough. “See you tonight, old girl.”On the horizon towering clouds blocked the sun.In the early evening Lila wheeled Ms. Luci into the house,humming a theme song from a television show that endedsatisfactorily, in Lila’s opinion. In the bedroom she sniffed theold woman’s armpits. She was ripe. There was no time for abath, and so Lila peeled off Ms. Luci’s gown and sprayed a thicklayer of Lysol.The Luci Company Caterers lit torches and laid out abuffet. Ms. Luci was wheeled back to the edge of the lanai, ablue taffeta dress slipping from her shoulders. The first gueststo filter in were well-dressed acquaintances. They whispered inMs. Luci’s ear, “My, you look lovely!” and took an opportunityto tour her expansive house, leaving her alone again.At first they sipped their cocktails politely. Then thesmell of meat and the free liquor and the storm brought outthe more unruly, like little water bugs waiting until dark.Officer Beal, off duty and loudly toasting this fact, wedgedhimself beneath the formal dining table and from this vantagetormented guests by batting at their legs, as would a playfulcat. Three women tried to coax him out with cooing and chinticklingand giggling. This attention made the situation worseand the officer began to fake a baby’s cry. Only when he realizedthat he was truly stuck did he throw an adult tantrum.Several men took matters into their own hands andused a rusty chainsaw to cut the dining table in half. This noise,and the destruction, did something to the crowd. Somethingshifted, broke loose.Ms. Luci’s doctor was there too and in the commotionmanaged to swipe a silver fork, three China saucers and oneteaspoon. What a thrill, he thought.78 / Blackwater Review

Amo was chatting-up a young woman with a homelyface and stupendous breasts. His comb over came unglued andhung to one side, like a broken wing. Subsequently, the youngwoman giggled at everything Amo said, even if it was notparticularly funny. This imbued him with confidence. He leanedinto her and pried open her teeth with his tongue and squeezedher breast tightly with one hand. It felt like warming jello.“Now if you’ll excuse me,” she said, spitting, “I’ve got togo wash this taste out of my mouth.”Amo, looking for some distraction, began openingdrawers to the dining hutch. He walked into the living roomand searched beneath each piece of furniture. He did thiscalmly, knowing that if he actually located the pistol he wouldcertainly not use it. Perhaps he would just swipe it, or perhapsnot. Just knowing where it was would satisfy him; it would givehim some hint of the old woman’s thoughts before she slippedaway. He went to Ms. Luci’s bedroom, shooed away two friskylocals and began searching through her closet. Where would anold woman hide her pistol?He would not find it. The day Ms. Luci intended to useit on Aaron was the day she tossed it into the sea. She had seta trap of food for the amorous young man and waited until hevisited his post. She watched from her window as he steppedonto her lawn and picked through the melon and slices of roastbeef and French bread. He was without shirt or shoes. Ratherthan shoot him, Ms. Luci opened her door and invited himin. Aaron let himself be led back to her room where, withoutwarning, she pointed the gun at him and jerked down hisshorts. He froze and could not move as the old woman tickledhim until she had her way. She tied him up, even, keeping himfor the entire day and into the night. She released him finallyinto custody, and he was hauled away in silence.It was 3 a.m. and the lightening storm brought thecrowd outside. Ms. Luci’s birthday cake looked as though it hadbeen pounded with a fist. Someone had put a paper birthdayhat on her, tilted sideways. She was covered in party streamersand a whistle had been placed in her mouth.Steele / 79

Aaron stood before Ms. Luci, swathed in a variety ofclothes he’d found throughout the day: the Hawaiian printshorts were tied with a small rope; he wore Amo’s jacket anda polka-dot neck tie, but no shirt. He held a large turkey leg inone hand and with the other pointed at Ms. Luci. She pointedback.They remained this way for some time, until the oldwoman made a guttural moan, like an old crocodile waking. Athin film from her eyes peeled back.Aaron turned to see what everyone could see: the moonand stars were covered over. In fact, a large cloud was buildingquickly but in the dark it looked like a tidal wave. This illusionwas so convincing that the drunken revelers fled the house,screaming. Several people broke their limbs in the scramble.Some squatted and braced themselves. Aaron, too, fled to thetelephone post, which he clung to. When the post was struck bylightening, he died instantly.Then Ms. Luci, with no one beside her, woke and justas suddenly was seized with terror. Her heart squeezed untilit stopped.A misty rain passed and moved north by morning. TheLuci Company Caterers began cleaning the mess in silence,stopping only to watch the new beachgoers spread theirblankets to make themselves at home by our sparkling sea.80 / Blackwater Review

Walking BluesMatt TuckerAn empty pair of shoes restsforlornly on the tracks. Betweenthe rails they lie, unoccupied quitesuddenly. Still warm inside, laces tied,in mid-step, one in front ofthe other. Soles full of gritfrom the brisk clip of strollingover gravel, dust clingingto the beaten leather. Duskfalls as the whistle of a trainresonates in the distance.Tucker / 81

82 / Blackwater ReviewI-10 East: Escape RouteDeborah R. MajorsHolding her breath, she plunges deeper and deeperinto liquid peace. Her Class-of-2005 Roll-Tide T-shirt floatswaterlogged above her new Victoria’s Secret red-lace bra. Oneat a time, bubbles like perfect little pearls escape her nostrils,while her wavy blonde hair abandons its shoulder perch anddances a slow dance with itself. Her eyes are closed, then slowlyopen to the sting of salty water as she’s weightless and alone.I wonder how deep the water is? Tires drum a rhythmicmantra over the gaps in the concrete bridge: die-dum, die-dum,die-dum. Her Honda gives a much smoother ride than that oldFalcon. Andrea remembers counting the gaps as a child, but sheand her best friend, Julie, never got to the end of the bridgebefore they lost count; their giggling made concentrationimpossible. Never mind that Julie’s grandmother was no helpat all—she would holler out random numbers to throw themoff, but they didn’t mind. The eleven year olds just liked tohear themselves laugh and actually enjoyed the cramps in theircheeks—it was their physical proof of a fun day. They probablyburied her in that old Falcon.The speed limit increases again to 70 as she leavesPensacola behind. Noticing a slight pull to the left in the steering,she makes a mental note to take her CRV for a maintenancecheck that is long overdue according to the check engine light.High Maintenance. How could he say that to me?She sits up straight, takes a deep breath, blows out asmuch air as she can, slowly, consciously, feeling her warm breathdry her freshly licked lips as it tunnels through the puckeredoval created to give the soothing sound she needed to hear. Shestretches first the left, then the right shoulder to her ears, thenwills her back muscles to relax as she lowers her shoulders.Andrea forces herself to make up stories aboutthe people in the passing vehicles, for today, neither theinterstate’s monotony nor the radio’s predictable variety is

distracting enough. One woman is a sequin-clad aerialisteloping to Vegas with the county’s coroner. They drive ayellow Mini Cooper with six red-shoed-clowns sardined inthe back seat, waiting for their cue to exit at the next reststop to the laughter and applause of tired adult travelers andhyper are-we-there-yet children.There goes a truck driver hauling desperate illegalshiding in Maytag refrigerators, washers and dryers. Themanifest reads: Working appliances on board. Like new.Make an offer. Must sell. Moving to Iceland.In her mind’s eye, Andrea sees herself punchingthe gas and passing the Wal-Mart semi that’s just ahead.She darts in its lane and slams on brakes. Will I black out?No, I’ll probably hang in the twilight between life and death,waiting for Jaws-of-Life to snip me free, only to be bound on agurney, exalted through the heavens by Medivac, then probedand prodded like those claiming to be kidnapped by little-greenalienswith bug eyes, big heads, and shapeless naked bodies—soshapeless that nobody even cares they’re naked, or that none ofthem have penises!“They must be an advanced race,” she says out loud,smiles, then winks at herself in the rearview mirror.Gas. McDonald’s. Stuckey’s. Next exit. Blue signs. Sad,sad blue signs—“Blue on blue, heartache on heartache…”She stops singing her mother’s favorite song midphraseto exit hard. Not slowing. Not noticing the faint squealof her tires. Not even noticing how dangerously close she’sfollowing a pink Mary Kay caddy with Texas plates. A manilafolder leaves the passenger seat and spreads its contentson the rubber floor-mat. A business card is stapled to thedocuments and a tiny, clean shaven face donning perfecthair and teeth smiles with capped confidence from the tinycorner picture, as she wills him a tiny Hitler mustache, tinyhorns, and an extra-large machete through his lawyerishskull in blood-red Sharpie ink.She pulls up to the pumps, puts the Honda in P, turnsoff the ignition, and presses her forehead to the steeringMajors / 83

wheel, letting her arms dangle alongside her knees until herneck hurts and her fingertips tingle.While filling her Honda with unleaded, she detectsa faint aroma of the state forest’s pines mingled with therecognizable smell of petrol, windshield cleaner, and hot Frenchfries. Avoiding her reflection in the tinted black window, shetastes the salty corners of her mouth and is reminded that shehasn’t cried in over twenty minutes but can feel the next waveof tears building up like overheated milk.She wishes her cell phone would ring, spark the gasfumes and bring the fire department, an ambulance and WEAR’scameras. She has just enough time to make the 6:00 news.After replacing the nozzle, fumbling with the gascap and pressing the No Receipt button, she looks aroundto weigh her options. McDonald’s or Stuckey’s? Stuckey’sor McDonald’s? McDonald’s, she decides, not being inthe mood for Elvis, John Deere, or Florida-is-for-loverssouvenirs, pecan logs, or big-haired smiling Mary Kay ladieswith flawless skin and flamingo-pink lipstick.Parking closest to the entrance, next to the blue linedhandicapped spaces, she climbs out and opens the back door.“Come on, Sweetie,” she whispers as she lifts the sleepingtoddler from his car seat, “Let’s go get us a Happy Meal.”84 / Blackwater Review

I Am My iTunes AccountMatt HaemmerleIt’s that time of my life when I must complete all ofthose pesky college applications. This means that I also need toanswer difficult essay prompts. Though there are many differentessay questions, there is one ultimate question that underlieseach of these superficial questions–“Who am I?” Can I reallyanswer this?! I am a human, something more complex than anyshort essay is capable of depicting. There can’t possibly be a wayof elegantly, concisely, and accurately showing who I truly am.As I ponder this, I glance up at the incandescent glow of thecomputer screen on the desk before me and open my iTunesaccount. All of this college application stuff is beginning to getto me. I need to listen to The Beatles to cheer myself up. Asthe mellifluous sounds of “Here Comes the Sun” gently tricklefrom the speakers of my computer, the answer to this ultimatequestion strikes me in a flash of clarity. It sounds absurd, but itis true. I am my iTunes account.As I scroll down my iTunes account, it becomes apparentthat I am an avid listener of The Who, Boston, The DoobieBrothers, Bruce Springsteen, and The Rolling Stones. Theeuphoric, head-jerking anthems of classic rock are the motorof my daily life. After a long day of distressing tests, befuddlinglectures on inverse trigonometric functions, and extracurricularactivities, I can’t wait to hop in my car and drive home, jammingto the music that keeps me moving. Classic rock motivates me,gives me a surge of life, is the impetus to come home fromschool, and somehow harness the energy to tackle all of myhomework. Classic rock represents my determination.Midway down my iTunes account, highlighted by thecool blue bar of my cursor, wafts the intimate musical flow ofMiles Davis. Here swirls an ambience composed of the ring ofthe piano, the penetrating, resounding, yet soothing cry of thetrumpet, and the pulsating ripples of drums and cymbals. Jazzis free, spontaneous, and introspective. Sometimes, at night,Haemmerle / 85

the pulse of jazz will trigger random thoughts. I remembervocabulary words I read days ago but didn’t know the meaningof, or things I heard on NPR or in philosophy class that I didn’tunderstand or yet have an opinion on. I find myself going tothe Internet out of curiosity, a habit of mind prompted by jazz.Miles Davis is the epitome of adaptation, improvisation, andextemporaneity. I was faced with the challenge of adaptationthree years ago when I moved from Chicago to Florida. I had toreadjust to a new environment and rebuild my life. Adaptation,I discovered, took time and the will to change. Moving wasmaking a rhythm with no sheet music, something that bothMiles Davis and I have mastered. Jazz represents my loose screwsand quirks, as well as my ability to adapt and improvise.Scrolling further down my iTunes account, I see themusic I listen to late at night on the way home from forensicstournaments. Except for the glow of my iPod, the inside of thecharter bus is always pitch black. The effervescent chatter ofstudents can be heard throughout the bus, but not by me. Iprefer to reflect in the solace of the music of U2, Coldplay, andPink Floyd. This is my “thinking music.” With placid soundssimmering in the back of my mind, I attempt to discoveresoteric wisdom, transcendental knowledge, whatever strikesme as profound. I contemplate long, progressive chains ofthought, and play out arguments in my head. Sometimes onclear nights while driving home, I’ll gaze out the window at thestars, billions of white specs frozen in place, scattered acrossthe boundless night sky. Above are planets, constellations,galaxies. I shiver and am enraptured by some unknown anxiety.Maybe it’s my reaction to the anguished voice of U2’s Bonostraining my ears. Or perhaps it is the fact that I am not aseternal as the night sky, where under it our planet seems sotrivial, each individual’s life even more so. On a night like this, Imade up my mind that I would seize every opportunity, see all Ican see, and do all I can do. My place on earth is temporary. Myspirit, though, is perennial, just like the voices and melodiesof so many musicians. It will live through the people I meetand have an impact on, and the people they meet, and so on.86 / Blackwater Review

This is why I want to be sure that the difference I make, theimprint I leave behind on earth, no matter how small, is a goodone. These are the sort of thoughts that are drawn out by my“thinking music,” which represents my reflective nature.My iTunes account is fully representative of me, mypersonality, my intentions, and my life experiences. It is theepitome of my self. I am what I eat, and I am also what I listento. My iTunes account holds the soundtrack to my life.Haemmerle / 87

WaltzJanis HannonEyes of gray stare unseeing;I avert my own, unable to meet the icy glare,Knowing they will not blink first.I am a coward full.Silver tongued, always whispering,she speaks of darkness unending—or is it eternal light?Pressing my flesh, urging me to the great unknown.Come, she says. There’s nothing to fear there,for I will be with you. Always. All ways.Stroking fingers pull me to the edge,laces forming a net to stay my fall.We will catch you, they assure me,whether your eyes are closed against the whitenessor useless wide against the darkness.We will be there, surround you.A nameless vamp leads this dance,swallowing me with her long throat,wrapping my foot, dragging me to the edgeso that I stare into the abyss,hearing her vaudeville song over and over.Step here, she plays. Step here.On boxed toes I sway,bouncing over the gaping wound below,thin quivering shank my only support,a single, thin line between breath and none.Aglets of fear surround me,binding me, stifling my breath.I look closer; might they be aglets of courage,so that I might not unravel? I do not know.I can not ask; I fear the answer.88 / Blackwater Review

Our souls are one,hers battered and hard, melded to mine.She pushes- no! - kicks me,to the edge and into the holeand I am set free,dragging her with me.Will I be no more,never to wear shoes again?Will she be no more,never to carry another traveler?Or will we return,dancing again the Waltz of Life?Hannon / 89

90 / Blackwater ReviewMy SonJeni SenterMy son’s conception was not intended. No one plannedfor the perfect day to conceive him. No one took prenatalvitamins and followed all of the rules with a longing hope anda sweet anticipation that a precious life would be created from aunion of true love. He was exposed to crack cocaine, nicotine, andalcohol before he was even born. He never received any prenatalcare, and there was no one to be excited about the thump-thumpof his little heart on the ultrasound machine. There was no oneto lovingly tape the grainy little pictures from the sonogram intoa baby book. No one made plans for his future, no one boughta layette, and no one started a college fund. There were no babyshowers for my son, and there were no gifts carefully wrapped inpretty blue ribbons.My son was born on a cracked, dirty linoleum floor with aclogged toilet and a scummy sink as witnesses. His umbilical cordwas torn from his body and twisted shut with a dirty bread tie. Hedidn’t initiate his first breath, probably in protest to his taintedintroduction to this world. He was given CPR by a neighbor whohad the smell of pot on his breath. My son was flown by a rescuehelicopter from his birthplace, a dilapidated trailer with crackedwindows and a rotten porch, to the hospital, where he was fedpeanut butter by his biological mother before he had even beenalive for 24 hours. He had a team of social workers assigned tohim before he was three days old.My son was discharged from the hospital into thecare and supervision of his grandmother, who liked to smokecrack, take pills, and ride a Harley. He never went for a wellbabycheckup at pediatrician’s office, and he didn’t have histwo-month immunizations. My son has a large pale scar on hisneck; I am not sure how it got there. The doctor says that it isa burn scar. The social worker says that he has seen this typeof scar before, mothers who can’t get the baby to stop crying,well, things get out of hand. My son had pneumonia when he

was one month old, but he didn’t get any medication to makeit go away. He had to fight for every breath that he took for thefirst 45 days of his life.At eight weeks old, my son found his family. He foundthe family that he was destined to become a part of. He found amother, a father, and three siblings that love him unconditionally.He went to the doctor, and he received his immunizations. Giftspoured in by the bagful: cards, clothes, and a brand new babybook filled with details about his new teeth, when he smiled forthe first time, and what day he first said “da-da.” He was visitedby friends, family, and neighbors. He had his first portrait madewith his new family, and even the largest package didn’t containenough pictures for all who wanted one. He was loved, wanted,and welcomed by the loving arms and warm hearts of an entirecommunity. I hope that he has no memories of his life prior tocoming to live with us. I pray that he doesn’t recall the turmoil ofhis introduction to the world; it is surely buried somewhere deepin his subconscious.My son is a blessing to me. Although the financial burdenplaced on our family was difficult to bear, the blessings that ourson brings to us every day make us wealthy. I am so thankful tohave been given the opportunity to embrace this child, to lookinto his soft, brown eyes and to see the potential that he holds.One day, when he is older, I will explain to him how I becamehis mother. I pray that he will understand how he has changedmy life and that I couldn’t imagine life without him. It is mystrongest wish that he will always be surrounded by love, trust,and honesty. I dream of him growing up in a world of tolerance,acceptance, and hope. I pray that he never dwells on where hecame from but always rejoices in where he can go from here.November is not only the month that we celebrateThanksgiving, but it is also Adoption Awareness Month. Thisyear, as I tell my adoption story, I will pause to give thanks tomy son. We are all given opportunities to change the world, todo something to make the universe a better place. I want to say“thank you” to my son James, for making a difference in my lifeand making my world a better place.Senter / 91

92 / Blackwater ReviewWishesDavid FlemingIt was July, and the morning sun hung like a smallyellow moth in the cloudless sky above my head. The lawn wasfreshly mowed–level, except for the stray blade here and therestanding inches above his brethren, no doubt recounting theharrowing tale of his survival. The trees swayed back and forthin a gentle breeze. Fluttering leaves glittered emerald againstan azure blue. Two wagon-red picnic tables sat alone in themiddle of the yard under the shade of a large beech tree. Thetables were draped with plastic featuring balloons and cake andparty hats, all in pink, blue, and yellow pastels. In the corner ofthe yard sat a bright new swing set next to a tall slide; the pairappeared as a mass of mirrored metal and shiny red plastic.Even the old wooden fence seemed less weathered and sullen,as if the contrasting play set reminded it of what it was liketo be young. I smelled the faint scent of pine mixed with thegrass clippings and gasoline. Somewhere, a leaf blower cleareda driveway and a mower hit a rock; a dog barked, and thenanother. I could almost hear the water running collectivelyinto pools and showers and glasses full of ice, water like bloodpumping in and out of a small, suburban heart.I stood alone that mid-summer morning, and closed myeyes. I could feel my heart beat in my fingertips, and I felt theEarth take a breath. Everything was alive.My little sister, Jamie, had turned seven earlier thatweek, but my parents were swamped at work, so the party hadto wait. Our family would all gather to watch Jamie open hergifts. It’s not a large family, just my mother, father, Jamie, andme. Our relatives, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins,would all be there later. The barbecue would be working allafternoon to feed the multitude of extended family, and we’dbe eating leftover birthday cake for weeks. However, we likedhaving a small pre-party; it was tradition. That way, the giftsfrom the ones who love you are each assigned a face and given

meaning before they get lost in the flood of cheap plastic froma dozen nameless relations.Jamie’s face lit up with each present, but when sheunwrapped the pink toy stroller my parents had given me themoney for, she jumped up and gave me the biggest hug a sevenyear-oldgirl can give. We were all so happy.I picture that afternoon every day, and I see it so clearly,even after all these years. I can’t imagine anything so perfect. Ilive for that single moment.* * *My alarm is screeching like a television left on the testchannel. It’s been going for hours, but I don’t move. Momor Dad will come in eventually to shut it off. It’s three in theafternoon, but the pale white sunlight fails to fill the room; itjust manages to slip through in small white dots that seem toonly make the rest of the room darker by comparison.It’s always dark here lately; the curtains never seem tolet in enough light no matter what time of day it is. There isn’treally much to look at anyway. It isn’t a messy room, but it isn’tparticularly clean either. I just want to be able to walk from mybed to the door without fear of tripping.The walls are a dull light grey, unbroken by posters orcalendars. My bed sits in the corner, kept company by a smallwooden dresser and a cheap, black, plastic computer desk. Themonitor sits blank on top of the desk, and a thin layer of dustgathers around the line I swiped my finger across. I imaginethe dust amassing forces, preparing an assault on that thinstreak to take back what was theirs. I also have a small tableand two padded chairs for when friends come by. The onlyother thing in my room is a waist-high bookcase, filled withthe recommendations of pastors and parishioners, family andfriends. Most of the furniture is pressed up against the walls,leaving the center a placid, navy blue lake, interrupted by theoccasional ball of lint or wayward sock.It brings back memories from younger years, when thelake was an ocean. I’d arrange the furniture into little islandsand turn my bed into a fort. My sister and I went on hundredsFleming / 93

of voyages and adventures that were launched from the footof my bed: charting unexplored territory, battling pirates,searching for treasure. We were home-schooled, so she wasreally my only classmate and my only friend. Even though I wastwo years older than Jamie, I never treated her like a little kid.My parents were very protective, but I’m still not sure of what.Jamie and I had a special game. I would pretend I was aSpanish missionary, bringing Christianity to the unenlightenedpeoples I met in my travels. I’d stand on my dresser reading linesout of my children’s Bible to my little sister’s stuffed animals.Jamie would set them up and sit with them, listening intentlyto every word I said. When I was finished, she would jump upand hug me tight, thanking me for bringing her and her tribesuch a wonderful gift. After a while, it was no longer a game,but a ritual. Every time ended the same way; we would holdeach other for a long time with tears streaming down our facesbecause we knew, right then, that God loved us.I see my old Bible tucked presently between books withtitles like Loving Jesus, A Guide to Simple Prayer, and A Sinner’sGuide to Accepting Christ. Those books are about the only thingsthat don’t gather dust in my room these days. I can’t countthe nights I’ve spent reading and re-reading page after page,line after line. Post-It Notes almost outnumber pages in some,and ear marks have almost destroyed others. All those nights,all those sleepless nights, and still, I can’t come to terms with“Him.” I can’t come to terms with Christianity. I can’t evencome to terms with myself. On all these nights I wonder whathappened between then and now. What happened to the boycaptainof the St. Teresa who saved all those Cabbage Patch kids?The one who sat crying with his sister, knowing that they werewarm centers of God’s loving universe? The answer is alwaysthe same.* * *It was July, and the afternoon sun hung menacinglybehind a dark gray cloud above our heads. The tendrils of lightreaching down from the outskirts of the cloud seemed like thetentacles of a giant, luminous octopus, and the cloud a spray94 / Blackwater Review

of jet black ink diluted in the water. Jamie had turned sevenearlier that week, but my parents were swamped at work, sothe party had to wait.After a long time, Jamie finally let go. She turnedaround, and walked back to her seat of honor across from thecake, next to Mom. My present was the last family gift, so it wastime to blow out the candles. It was getting late, and our otherrelatives would begin arriving at any time. Mom had already litthe candles by the time Jamie sat back down.This wasn’t the big supermarket cake sitting in the fridgewith Disney characters printed all over, and “Happy SeventhBirthday” written in perfect cursive. This was a small cake, justbig enough for seven candles and four people. White frostingwas spread unevenly around the sides, and there were still somespots where the chocolate color of the cake showed through. Insloppy red letters, all crunched together due to lack of space,“Happy Birthday Jamie” was my contribution. Mom and Dad hadbaked it that morning, but they let me help spread the frosting,and Mom showed me how to hold the colored frosting tube justright. This was our Family Cake.Jamie was sitting across the table from me, her headhovering just in front the cake. My parents started singing“Happy Birthday” and Jamie looked up at me, singing along. Sheasked me what she should wish for. As the song finished, shetook a deep breath. She stared at me as she blew out the candles,and I knew exactly what she wished for.Her face dropped into the cake, and the world went silent.Both Mom and Dad leaned back and started laughing, untilMom’s mouth opened to scream when she noticed the thin redline trickling out of Jamie’s ear. My father jumped up, knockingme from my seat to the ground, and flew to Jamie’s side, pullingher head from the cake. Her body fell limp into his arms. I layunmoving in the freshly cut grass. A long, uncut blade left a paperthinslice on my right cheek. An ant walked bewildered circlesaround my face. I just stared straight up, thinking about Jamie’swish, as the sun disappeared completely behind the clouds, and adrop of rain landed like her warm breath on my cheek.Fleming / 95

* * *The doctors said it was a blood clot, that she diedinstantly and felt no pain. I don’t care. It isn’t about pain. It’sabout God, and it has been ever since.* * *Now I sit in my room, and Jamie’s pale blue eyes arepasted on every surface by my mind. Every night I sit and thinkabout that day, and I think of a wish each time I close my eyesand see her blow out the candles. Sometimes it’s happiness…orlove…or friendship…or peace…or family…or justice…or cake…or God…or Freedom…or toys……or life. I like to think thatshe’s with God now. I like to think she’s happy. But it’s a lie Itell myself, and it’s thinking I hate worst of all.When I really think, I see myself. I see a hypocrite, a liar.Worst of all, I see the truth. It wasn’t losing my sister that reallyhurt. I lost God that day. And it makes me sick that I’d be soselfish, caring about a lie so much that I turn my life into one.How could a just and loving God do something soterrible? “God has a reason,” they tell me, or “We can’t knowwhat higher purpose your sister’s death served.” I look at them,friends, family, relatives, pastors, parishioners, kindly, andsay thank you as the words pass through me. I want to believethem. I’ve spent the last seven years trying. I’ve been a goodChristian. I go to church at least twice a week. I don’t swear, ordo drugs, or have premarital sex, or anything.I walk the same path my parents prodded me down, thepath my sister tied me to. I have a Christian mindset, but notthe beliefs. When I look at myself, I have two visions, and bothare revolted by what they see. Whenever someone looks at me,I imagine they see me as I see myself, and it taints their everyword and action. Every kind word is a mask for their contempt,and every kind gesture a masquerade for their disgust.* * *The two boxes of sleeping pills sit by the bed. I countthem myself: one hundred total. I hold them cupped in myhands just to feel the weight of my mortality, and realize ablood clot must have weighed much less. I swallow them one at96 / Blackwater Review

a time, but every time I get four or five down, I start gagging.Half way through and I throw up. Fifty pale blue beads comespilling from my throat, spreading like a mosaic across the darkfloor. I pick up every last one, and start over. It takes a longtime to get them all to stay down.At last, I lie back in my bed, and think about Jamieand God. For seven years, I’ve wanted them both back. Sevenbirthdays I’ve blown out candles only to get smoke and tears.In seven years, I really only learned one thing: not to wish formore than smoke. I told my parents I loved them before I wentto bed, and I feel sorry for whichever of them comes to turnmy alarm clock off in the morning. It isn’t fair to them, but itisn’t fair to me either, to have to live the lie they forced me tobelieve. At least they have God.I picture Jamie for the last time. I see her eyes stilllooking into me and hear her ask me what she should wishfor. I loved her. I look into her eyes, into that beautiful face.Together, we take one last breath. Together, we make a wish.Together, we blow out the candles.* * *It is July, and the morning sun hangs lightly in thecloudless sky above my head, and Jamie is holding my hand.We both close our eyes and see the beauty around us. I can feelthe heartbeat in her fingertips, and we both breathe with theEarth. Everything is alive, and so are we.Fleming / 97

BrokenJerry LeafgreenSuspended on the wallhangs a broken clock;stationary moments slumberUnmoving handspoint accusingly at numbers,guilty of counting time passed,time lost, and time forgotten.Dust has settled on the clock’sancient tattooed facelike a burial shroud.The somber veil masksthe luster of gold numeralsthat are set adrift, onan endless, placid seaof obsidian ink.Quiet is the heart that pacedeach passing second witha depressing tick-tock dirge.Derelict cogs and gearslie at rest, entombed,rusting in silent decayuntil there is no more.98 / Blackwater Review

Pull No PunchesMatt Tucker“The bird is on the wing,” said Francis, with an air ofoverzealous urgency. “C’mon, we don’t have much time. Thebird, Bernie…it’s on the wing.”Bernadette rubbed her eyes, vigorously trying to getthem to open on their own, with little success. She had beenin the throes of a rock hard sleep, only one level away fromcomatose, the realms of “nap” and “snooze” far behind her.A gigantic floating cup containing forty-six shots of premiumEspresso Roast from Starbucks had filled her already unsettlingdreams and taken her to a place where no one slept for evenone minute per day and caffeine was taken intravenously.This was not a restful dream. And to make it worse, Franciswas now shouting gibberish into her ear without any signs ofletting up soon.“Wake up, Bernie, we gotta get movin’. Movin’ andshakin’! The bird is on the wing. There’s gonna be a—”“What…is…it?” she growled, slowly forming thewords, each one more hate-filled than the last. Her mood wasbordering on foul. “Would you please stop with that stupid codetalk? I don’t have the first clue as to what you could possibly beyakking about at this wretched hour.” She pitched an emptyRed Bull can in the direction of the voice that had roused her soinconsiderately.“General Benzedrine!” Francis wailed. “He’s escapinginto the Phallusian Black Hole, and I can’t catch him alone. Ineed you to play co-op with me. You’re really good, I know youare. Please?”Caught in the dreaded sway of a nasty caffeine hangover,Bernadette was comprehending very little of this plea forassistance from her kid brother. She heard the words “escaping”and “black hole” and hoped that Francis was planning a trip.“Yeah, that’s fine, Francis. Escape whenever you wantto,” she said, punching her pillow a few times. She forcefullyTucker / 99

inserted her face into the indention she had made and tried toabsorb any last remnant of sleep that might be lingering withinthe downy softness.Francis had come to live with her two weeks ago astheir parents were engaged in the ultimate test of willpowerand obstinacy—a divorce settlement—and didn’t want himunderfoot. She had rented the miniscule studio apartment to getaway from home and the repugnant presence of her father. To putit mildly, things were strained between them. When Bernadettewas nine, she had caught him with another woman…It was a Wednesday and her mother was at MarceauPark, working on an oil painting of some rocks—or at leastthat’s all Bernadette and Francis could make of it. Jack hadtumbled through the front door with his hands full of a young,blonde receptionist giggling about how she had forgottento wear underwear that day. Her father was completelyunaware that Bernadette had stayed home sick from schoolwith a torrential runny nose. Wondering how someone couldsimply forget to wear underwear, she heard the girl’s gigglesturn into moans. Perplexed, Bernadette had peeked throughher parents’ bedroom door, which had been left slightly ajar.There she got an eyeful of what she would later come to knowas the reverse horseshoe position. “Daddy, stop it!” she hadblurted out in her confusion and horror. At the sound of hisdaughter’s voice, Jack froze and went completely flaccid rightbefore climax. Before she had time to react, he was alreadyupon her, pinning her to the floor, his sweaty hands like viceson her quivering shoulders. His eyes were full of rage and fearas he told her that she could never say a word about this toanyone. “I’ll send you away” were his words. “To a boardingschool in Alaska. You’ll never see Mom or Francis again.”Terrified, she had sobbed her promise of silence through thedeluge of snot and tears. Bernadette had never forgotten theforeignness of her father’s face as his naked body crouchedover her, pressing her into the cracks in the cold tile floor.His hot, putrid breath in her face would linger in her nostrilsfor days.100 / Blackwater Review

She had extricated herself from her parents’ residence,their reign, and their issues as soon as she could afford it,which wasn’t until her twenty-second birthday. Her boss Maxat Club Shiner had noticed her timeliness, work ethic, andher ability to deal with drunk, horny patrons effectively andhad given her a substantial raise. He wondered occasionally ifBernadette would be better suited as the bouncer, but decidedthat the smell of drunk, horny, dead patrons in a pile outsidethe door might cut into business.“Do you have anything to eat in this converted doghousebesides Red Bull and Ramen noodles?” whined Francis. “I needsome breakfast.”Bernadette abandoned the quest for a little more shuteyeand glanced at the pretentious little clock-radio on the floorbeside her mattress. It always seemed to mock her by tellingexactly how swiftly time was passing, screaming how her fastlife really was consuming her, bit by ever-larger bit, just like hermother always did. The days seemed so short.“I take it back,” Francis added. “I think that wouldinsult some of the middle class working dogs. This is like thedilapidated east wing of a converted doghouse.”“It’s three in the afternoon. Why do you need breakfast?”groaned Bernadette.“I always have breakfast; it doesn’t matter how late it is.I feel weird if I don’t.”“Welcome to the real world, Bud,” Bernie chuckled.“You’re probably always going to feel weird. It’s not like livingwith Jack and Inez in the big cushy house.” Bernadette hadtaken to calling her parents by their first names as a way tofurther detach herself from them. It felt good to address them aspeople that had once been part of her life but were no longer.After Bernadette left, things had gotten more intense.There were more arguments, more crises, more drama in general.It seemed to have become a sort of deranged competitionbetween their parents. First it was little things: leaving thetoilet seat up, cross-threading the jar lids; it kicked up a notchwhen Jack started letting the air out of Inez’s tires. She was aTucker / 101

cool, collected woman, rarely fazed and mostly expressionless,but the sight of her new, glossy, once-formidable Range Roverwallowing helplessly in four little puddles of rubber enraged herlike nothing else could, especially after it happened the thirdtime in a week. There was retaliatory Blackberry sabotage, thena burglary, and, shortly after, a fire. Then came the inevitabledivorce settlement that both of them knew would never cometo an agreeable end, though Jack had suggested an officiatedboxing match between them for all the marbles. Inez had agreed,but the lawyers were staunchly opposed to the idea.Bernadette showered slowly, letting the cool water seepinto her pores and cleanse her body of the sweat, smoke, liquor,and caffeine that saturated the air she breathed on a normal nightat work. Her long, dark brown hair hung over her face like anopaque veil, shielding her from the hollow stare of the world thatmade her feel so alone. She always let her hair grow long; it wassomething she could take pride in and hide in at the same time.Fear of her father had taught to hide. It had become instinctive.“C’mon, Francis,” she called to her brother as shedressed. “Let’s go get a bite before I have to go to work. Got anypreferences?”“Denny’s?” came the tentative reply. “I could still usesome breakfast . . . . ”“Denny’s it is.”The heavy atmospheric wave of sensory stimuli washedover Bernadette as she walked into Club Shiner. It took severalseconds for her pupils to adjust to the dim lighting since the sunhadn’t quite sunk below the city skyline yet. The colored lightshad just sparked to life and were beginning to whirl across thegraffiti-covered concrete dance floor in time with the jarring bassthrob that stuffed itself into her ears and traveled down her body,replacing her pulse with one of its own. Her adrenaline didn’trush quite like it used to when she came in here, but she still feltmore alert and vigilant than she had before.“Hey, Bernie,” came a voice from the long curved bar onthe left side of the building. Alvin, the bartender, was settingup for a busy Friday night: hundred reflections of the dizzying102 / Blackwater Review

light show shimmered in the obsessively polished glasses thathung from the racks above the bar. “Best be on you’re A-gametonight. That DJ from Atlanta is supposed to be here tonight.The place might get a little tight.”Groan. She had forgotten about that. DJ Zombie wassupposed to arrive around eight, and there had been a lotof hype generated over it. Allegedly, every club was filled tobeyond max capacity when he showed up.“Thanks for the heads-up, Al.” she sighed. “Blast it all.And I was looking forward to a nice quiet evening at the club.”One corner of her mouth angled up and denoted sarcasm; theother corner remained where it was, indicating dismay.“C’mon, try to enjoy your job for once, hon,” said Alvin,examining his shock of bleach blonde hair in the reflection ofa shot glass. “I hear this Zombie bloke really knows how to geta crowd going.”Bernadette’s mind seemed like it had been over-clockedfor the last few days; her motherboard was dangerously closeto frying. Working late nights, paying the bills, taking care ofher brother, maintaining the stone wall she’d built betweenher and her parents: it was a battle keeping everything in theair. The last thing she needed was more input. Especially inthe form of a wild disc jockey and a pumped up crowd.“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” she said wearily. “Idon’t have the luxury of cowering behind a protective barrier,like you. While you hand out booze from your cozy little spotback here, I’m ricocheting from one hammered frat boy to thenext like some manic pinball.”“True enough. I’ll save you a spot back here if you findyourself seeking refuge from the insanity. Maybe you can pourthe shots tonight, and I can go dance, eh?”“For one, you can’t dance, Alvin. And I’ll be drinkingany shots I pour tonight, I think.” Bernadette was completelyserious when she said this, even though she cracked a smile atAlvin. She didn’t think she would survive this night sober.Doors opened at seven, and a steady stream of clubbersmarched in and mellowed out. Some crowded around the barTucker / 103

to get the buzz on early, some populated the dance floor toget the sweat on early, and some just mingled, hoping the DJwould get there early.Bernadette noticed that the volume of people wasalready a lot higher than normal, and it was a more diversecrowd. It wasn’t just the regulars tonight—it was theirregulars, too. But not until she saw her own father, Jack,stroll in, sultry female in tow, did she realize just how bizarrethis evening would be.A knot formed in her stomach as the trauma of Jack’sprevious escapades of infidelity came pounding into hermemory. He knew where she worked; he was taunting her.This was Jack’s way of saying, “You can run, but you can’thide.” Bernadette was fed up with this kind of harassment.Tonight her fury told her to fight back, and she was sure ashell not going to pull her punches.She picked up a tray of Bombay Sapphire from the barand headed straight for the booth where Jack was brashlyfondling his date’s breasts, commenting on what fine workthey were. Nearing the table she quickened her pace, dodgingand weaving through the swarms of inebriated people swayingto the crackling synth wash, zeroing in on her target. AsBernadette barreled past her father, she jettisoned her cargoand let gravity have its way with it. Out of the corner of hereye she glimpsed Jack’s face suddenly register concern as anunmanned tray of gin hurtled through the air toward him.There was a crash and a shriek and a yell. She ducked into therestroom to let the commotion die down and let her heartbeatlevel out.He definitely deserved that but probably more, thoughtBernadette. Too bad it wasn’t a rich Merlot on the tray. Or alive octopus. But there was always next time.She had dealt him a pretty stiff blow, but was itenough, she wondered? Would he still be out there when shedecided to come out of her ladies room fortress? She hopednot; she didn’t know how many drinks she could dump onhim without being fired.104 / Blackwater Review

Bernadette nervously glanced at her watch. She’dbeen in the restroom for about five minutes, but she wasn’tconfident that it was safe to emerge quite yet. Actually, shewasn’t even sure if Jack had seen her approaching with thepayload or bee-lining for the restroom, but she knew Jack.And one could never be too careful with Jack. He was the sortof man who put revenge at the top of his to-do list—breathingcould wait. Jack always knew the score and never settled untilit was a hundred to one in his favor.She carefully opened the door a crack to survey theaftermath of her assault. A twinge of déjà vu drifted throughher consciousness. Jack was on his feet, sopping, and livid.Max, the manager had come out and was trying vainly to calmhim down and explain exactly what had occurred.“I want to see someone fired,” roared Jack. “This place isa travesty. I’d never been treated like shit until I came here!”Watching her boss valiantly try to clean up her messonly to be insulted and disparaged by the man she no longercalled father was too much for Bernadette to sit and watch. Sheflung open the door of the restroom and strode through thedancing lights to her surprised manager’s side. Jack glared ather with every ounce of hatred and malice he could pack intoone expression, but it was battered and smashed to bits byBernadette’s own stone wall of a glare.“I can handle this, Bernadette,” said Max. “Just go graba mop and—““No,” interjected Bernadette firmly. “He’s here for me.”“Are you responsible for this, Bernadette? Thisembarrassment?” demanded Jack. “Because you’re stillmy daughter, and I can still punish you.” His eyes flashedmenacingly.“Yes, Jack. It was me. And I meant to do it,” repliedBernadette, her voice rising. “And you’re wrong. There is nothingyou can do to me, absolutely nothing. I don’t know why I everthought there was.”“I can think of several things I can do to you right now,you little whore,” spat Jack, taking a step forward. He wasTucker / 105

quickly countered by Max who stepped in front of Bernadetteand Alvin who appeared at her side.“I don’t think so, sir,” said Max, sharply. “Not in myestablishment. Do I need to call the police?”“See, Jack? You could never touch me,” Bernadettelaughed derisively. “But I can touch you.” Jack’s expressionfaltered for a moment. “I can sing. I can tell Inez about all theyears that you’ve been cheating on her, and you’ll never winyour divorce settlement with that kind of dirt on you.” The ideaof having leverage against Jack, threatening him even, was themost liberating feeling Bernadette had ever felt. It was like thesteel chains that bound her had turned into spaghetti noodles.“Lies, that’s all that ever came out of your mouth,”retorted Jack. His fight was waning.“No, no lies, Jack. And you know it. The only reasonI haven’t told her already is because I was always afraid ofyou. But not any more. I’ll sing, now. If I ever see you again,I’ll sing.”106 / Blackwater Review

In My SkinJeni SenterMy feet hurt.I can barely walk butthere are stillrough spotsthat have to go.I have this infuriating habitof peeling the skinfrom my fingers and feet.Sometimes they bleed.Sometimesthe throbbing and itchingkeep me up at night.When I am sleeping,my hand or my footwill slideacross satin that snagson the shingled skin.I have to wake up and peeluntil it doesn’t snag anymore.Right nowI am trying to writeand my fingers are calling out to me;Demanding the scrape of nailAgainst sandpaper skin.The skin that has surrounded meSince birthis my curse.Skin is supposed to protect and support,but I despise it,I want to tear itand clip itand bite ituntil it submits to me.Senter/ 107

I have cut backOn ripping the skinFrom my scalp—picking until scabs formleaving a comfortable patternlike Brailleunder the hairfor my fingers to findwhen I need comfort.Now I only turn to my scalpwhen my hands and feetare too painful to touchor when my husband is watching meclosely guarding my flesh;trying uselessly to distract mefrom my self mutilation.It only makes me angry.This skin is mine,Regardless of my contempt for it.At times I havecountless bloody raw spots.Often I am ashamedOf my hands and feet.People stare—Like at lepers in Jerusalem.But sometimesI feel powerfulLooking at the externalManifestationof my internal pain.There are shiny pink and red scarsOn my feetSometimes faint like aDelicate CarnationPinned to a prom dressSometimes bloomingIn crimson108 / Blackwater Review

Dripping onto the tile,Leaving Rorschach blotsIn the bathroom floor.What do you see in this image?I see a scared little girl.Senter / 109

My sorrow runs deepMetaphorical quicksandMoving through my bodyPreparing me for burialIn the roots, my bloodOne-sixteenth indigenousThree sisters of lifeGrown upon the earthBark huts in the summerWoven cattail leavesFor winter lodges, Ita-hosThe language of my ancestorsTraces of French and OmahaTa way a hay, Ta way a hayLike particles of energyRemoved from the bodyReturning to the EarthThe womb of deathWhere all men are onePa-ho-jaMarie Liberty110 / Blackwater Review

The ShoeJessica BorsiThe left shoe had seen better daysIt was torn, worn, and was missing its mateIt was far past the time it should be replacedStill, the girl held it as if it were a priceless chalice“See this stain?” she mused to no one and explainedthough no one was listening. She knew every scarIt was coffee. He wasn’t supposed to have coffeeA chain-link fence had torn a hole in the sideHe had hopped over that fence. No one was sure whyThe treads on the bottom had long since worn awayThe rubber toe was stained orange with dustThe sole was worn down to a thin lineNo padding was left in that thin leather soleHe had stood on it too long, waitingHe had ground his heel into the dirt too muchNow the sole was just a thin layer of clothTattered, torn, and stainedThe shoe should be replacedThe cloth had given upThe rubber had given inThe shoe’s mate had already leftIt was time to move onTime to forgive, forgetBut she would keep that shoeAfter all, the body is mostly goneBut the soul still remainedBorsi / 111

Lucky Star QuiltJanis HannonWe fold, scatter, and refold—delightfully different quilts stitchedfrom a common pair of threads. One quiltedto the engineer’s exacting squares, another a rugged fireman’sdenim, still another a rainbow of artists’ colors.We tease, picking at the edges,unraveling the mysterious family fabrics to seewho’s a shiny satin circle, a fuzzy flannel square,or a colorful calico triangle. See— here’s a tear! There’s amissed stitch.Oh, the colors don’t match, but— what fine muslin backs wehave!In the rainbow quilt called Me, I spy a maternal warp,DNA unyielding, unchanging—humorous stitches hold vibrant twists of yellowin sunny smiles, long lines of laughing stitches.Laughs line my quilt, my face, my life.Yet another maternal twist of fate has woveninto me long yards of ticking, endless stripes of merciless memoryfor fighting unfair. Cloaking shoulders, the warm yellowbecomes a raging red mantle.I will have the last word, biting as far as I can reach.It isn’t far, thank you, Mother, but it is farther than you can bite!Sweet squares of diabetes, gray circles of sleepless nights andblack strips of perpetual fatigue shade my Star,woven by generations of errant endocrine systems.Ripping them out will only disintegrate me,shredding me into tiny, useless strings, a bolt of burlap.112 / Blackwater Review

Look closely—it is a stellar collection, this quilt.Bunnies and hobbies collect, quivering under the quilted bed,hiding like all the good intentionsI hoard. My first collection the C chromosomes,one from each parent— a double dose of that, no doubt!I pluck the fabric of this quilt called Me. There—a woof of my father— faithful, lover of plants and animals.My first spoken word reflects that same animal attraction.Dogs—and faith—form a lapped borderas does that paternally-endowed stubborn green stripe I sport.I draw the quilt closer still, seeking yet morefrom the stitched squares, the keeper of my code.Ah, there, fingers not my own, left to me by chance,creating, sewing, painting, interpreting their owner’s world.I thank the contributors to my Lucky Star Quilt for that!I am a calico quilt, shiny new spots here, stubborn tear stains there,as able to rearrange my quilted points as a leopardcan sport zebra stripes, but,as long as I live, so shall my parents.As long as my son breathes… so shall I, an endless patch in aquilted sky.Hannon / 113

Dirt RoadJanis HannonNoses upturned, the unbelieving dripderision. A dirt road? Youlive on a dirt road! How nasty—why don’t “they” pave it?“They” don’t own it; the dirtis mine alone, a path that cutsthrough thick woodsand ends at my brick abode.Pavement pales in comparison,left in a trail of dust. Deer dance,unhindered by careening cars,leaving signature vees in supple sand.Children play in the dust—hopscotch, marbles, a trusty canvas,a single swipe do-over, and over, again.A perpetual slate, unmatched in asphalt.Stories are inscribedthere for all who take timeto read, line after linewritten by all who pass— on my dirt road.114 / Blackwater Review

ContributorsJessica Borsi is a senior at the Collegiate High School. Sheplans to attend the University of Florida and pursue a degree increative writing.Denielle Bergens-Harmon is an ongoing art student and hashad the privilege to study at the Art Institutes in Chicago andNew Orleans. She considers her education and expression of artto be a life-long journey rather than a destination.Kyra Candell is a junior at OWC’s Collegiate High School. Shehopes to study psychology and learn about others. Also, she loveswriting and singing along to her favorite music in the car.Mo Dao is a graduate of Emory University with a B.A. inphilosophy and plans to study textile design in the Fall of 2008.David Fleming is an OWC student studying nothing inparticular. He plans to attend the University of Florida where hewill continue his studies.Matt Haemmerle is a Collegiate High School student who willbe attending a major university in the fall of 2008. He enjoystraveling and outdoor activities.Janis Hannon has a BA in business management and is anartist. She enjoys her family, martial arts and painting.Candice Joslin has entirely too many ideas. However, she plansto accomplish them all... some day.Contributors / 115

Danielle Kelly is a student in OWC’s graphic design department.She is an aspiring professional photographer.Jerry Leafgreen is a part-time student studying life. He plansto attend the University of Florida to study art history.Thomas Leighton is a communications major at Okaloosa-Walton College.Marie Liberty is enrolled in the EPI program and plans tobecome a teacher. She also has a master’s degree in psychologyand is currently writing her second book.Deborah R. Majors is the mother of two teenagers and hopesto obtain her AA from OWC before she is a grandmother!Kendall Marsh is relatively new to creative writing. She firststarted OWC going for a degree in business but is currentlymajoring in awesome.Jane Montgomery is a retired software professional whoseinterest in photography includes digital imaging. Her primaryfocus is on fine art and nature photography.Matt Pierson is a Collegiate High School student studyingEnglish. He doesn’t have any plans. He likes that just how it is.Jeni Senter is a wife and mother of four who lives in theBlackwater River State Forest. She is studying elementaryeducation and continues to pursue her lifelong passion, writing.116 / Blackwater Review

Maria Geneve Steele works in Destin and enjoys taking classesat OWC and UWF.Adam Thair Stevens is a native Floridian artist who practicesdrawing, painting, sculpture, photography and digital media.Matt Tucker is an aspiring humorist whose top priority is makinga reader laugh–a silent laugh is acceptable. Matt is striving for adegree in journalism, but his path is yet undecided.Reid Tucker is a class of ‘07 OWC alumnus and currently ajournalism student at the University of Central Florida. He likesreading, writing, watching classic movies, and practicing MuayThai. He enjoys the love and support of his family.Ray Willcox is trying to improve upon his limited writingability by taking advantage of the great courses and instructorsat OWCContributors / 117

C O L L E G E100 College BoulevardNiceville, Florida32578www.owc.eduOkaloosa-Walton College is an equal access, equal opportunity institution.118 / Blackwater Review

CONTRIBUTORSChelsea AlfordSon Hae AllenRhoda Ramirez de ArellanoLoren BoyerLizzy ChalonpkaSarah CrowStephanie CrowJoshua EngelkensEric FarmerChristina FaulknerJia FlynnColby B. FoxAdam GuilesSandra Clay HarrisonKathryn HensonAnita HesterSharon JamesSamantha JohnsonJoy JulioAnna KoesterEmily M. KnudsenJoan M. LanghamJerry LeafgreenEdward J. LewisDeborah R. MajorsEdanette MarquezLola MilesJane MontgomeryDara NorthMatt PiersonClarence Norbert Quinlan, IVTawanah ReevesKayla M. RichterChris SiricoAdam Thair StevensAasha SriramLaurie StoneJake VermillionChristian WalkerKyle WebbBlackwater Review Spring 2009State College

Blackwater Review

Blackwater ReviewA Journal of Literature and ArtVolume 7, No.1 Spring 2009Niceville, Florida

Blackwater Review aims to encourage student writing, studentart, and intellectual and creative life at Northwest FloridaState College by providing a showcase for meritorious work.Blackwater Review is published annually at Northwest FloridaState College and is funded by the college.Editorial Board:Vickie Hunt, Julie Nichols, Amy RiddellArt Director:Benjamin GillhamEditorial Advisory Board:Jon Brooks, Janet Faubel, Beverly Holmes,Charles Myers, and Deidre PriceCopy Editor:Caitlin PiersonArt Advisory Board:J.B. Cobbs, Benjamin Gillham, Stephen Phillips,Lyn Rackley, Karen Valdes, and Ann WatersGraphic Design and Photography:James MelvinWeb DesignRiotta ScottAll selections published in this issue are the work of students;they do not necessarily reflect the views of members of theadministration, faculty, staff, District Board of Trustees, orFoundation Board of Northwest Florida State College.©2009 Northwest Florida State College.All rights are owned by the authors of the selections.Front cover artwork:Sky Dancers, Kathryn Henson

AcknowledgmentsThe editors and staff extend their sincere appreciationto Dr. James R. Richburg, President, and Dr. Jill White, SeniorVice President, Northwest Florida State College, for their supportof Blackwater Review.We are also grateful to Frederic LaRoche, sponsor of theJames and Christian LaRoche Distinguished Endowed TeachingChair in Poetry and Literature, which funds the annualJames and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, whosewinner is included in this issue.

CONTENTSBathroom of Sorrow, Kyle Webb 1change: longing for it after the cow is bought,Deborah R. Majors 3Flat Root Beer, Christian Walker 4Jasper Brown, Jerry Leafgreen 11Sorrow, Deborah R. Majors 12sol recedit, Jia Flynn 15Ancient Pug, Dara North 17Compromise, Colby B. Fox 18San Francisco: Human Study I, Jia Flynn 19Indecision: My Rocking Chair, Kyle Webb 20The Monsoon, Colby B. Fox 21A Cloudy Day, Jake Vermillion 23Daughter of Laura Ashley, Joy Julio 24Weathered, Kyle Webb 25Change, Jerry Leafgreen 26Virtue, Matt Pierson 27Curse of the Crooner (LaRoche winner), Kyle Webb 29

Distinction, Dara North 31Porch Light Sister, Christian Walker 32Max and the Monsters, Adam Guiles 33Center Stage, Tawanah Reeves 35Bird with No Name, Jia Flynn 36Love Letter from the Crestview Hilton, Loren Boyer 38White Noise, Kyle Webb 71For My Father Who Isn’t a Rock Star but Might Have Been If HeWeren’t Ordained, Joy Julio 72Virgin Daiquiris in New York City,Clarence Norbert Quinlan, IV 73Princess James Follows His Heart, Joy Julio 85Tomato, Jia Flynn 98Bread, Jia Flynn 100Tornadoes and Green Beans, Laurie Stone 101Flawless, Eric Farmer 10421st-Century Wolf, Kyle Webb 105My Boy, Sarah Crow 107Davenport: Where the Lost are Found, Deborah R. Majors 108Amber, Matt Pierson 109

COLOR PLATESSelf Portrait, Chelsea Alford 39Old Country Farm House, Son Hae Allen 40Man with the Hat, Joan M. Langham 41Under the Everlasting Arms, Christine Faulkner 42Cherry Blossoms, Chris Sirico 43Wither, Lizzy Chalonpka 44Dealing with Men, Anita Hester 45Growth, Kayla M. Richter 46Not the Ending She Envisioned, Dara North 47Bug, Adam Thair Stevens 48Back Tattoo, Lola Miles 49Under the Bridge, Samantha Johnson 50The Apple, Rhoda Ramirez de Arellano 51Ice Plant, Edward J. Lewis 52Tanjoor Painting (Gayathri), Aasha Sriram 53Oxidation Station, Jane Montgomery 54Skull, Rhoda Ramirez de Arellano 55

Life is Just a Bowl of Dark Sweet Cherries, Anna Koester 56Windy Day, Son Hae Allen 57Philodendrum, Rhoda Ramirez de Arellano 58Eyesore, Joshua Engelkens 59Chasing Cars, Edanette Marquez 60Gingko’s Golden Glow, Sharon James 61Sight and Sound, Edanette Marquez 62In Loving Memory 1982-2008, Emily M. Knudsen 63Venetian Glassblower, Chris Sirico 64First Stop, Stephanie Crow 65White Iris, Emily M. Knudsen 66Uncle Jimmy’s Riverhouse, Demopolis, Sandra Clay Harrison 67Tropical Beauty, Son Hae Allen 68Entities of Color, Anita Hester 69Perseverance, Kayla M. Richter 70

Bathroom of SorrowKyle WebbIt’s dirty again.Dust and hair,toothpaste driedon the marble counter.Just one toothbrushin the cup now.Wet towels gatheron the floor.I can still picture her leaningover the sink, battingherself with mascara.Old Spice lingerson the air. No longerthe mixed aromasof mango shampoosand vanilla lotions.Her voice still echoesfaintly from the stall.Her school girl giggle.The fresh peppermintof Crest plus whiteningpassing from tongueto tongue in the morning.She really didn’t needthe plus whitening.Webb / 1

Soap scum build-upon the tile grout.Heavy water stainsin the ceramic tub.Partially from tears.2 / Blackwater Review

change: longing for it after the cow is boughtDeborah R. Majorshe’s trying to change.he pulls on the sea-foam green oxford, my favorite.he likes his white Arrow and reminds me of his sacrifice,tugging the cuffs, clicking his tongue.he’s trying to change.he remembers to compliment good dinner, afterhis list of it-would-have-been-better ifs. I know, when Igo to bed, he will fill on Frosted Flakes, Lays, and Letterman.he’s trying to change.he hands me the remote,smiles gently,then picks up the sports sectionand curtains his face.Majors / 3

4 / Blackwater ReviewFlat Root BeerChristian WalkerIf she doesn’t shut up soon, I’m going to snap her neckwith my bare hands. She sprawls herself on the sofa in the livingroom all day, her complaints carrying all the way to the backroom.But Aunt Andria couldn’t care less; she’s too busy tellingeverybody how expletive expletive expletive her boss is. Shedoesn’t mind that my six-year-old and seven-year-old cousinsare in the room, listening.I get up to close the door. The cousins’ air mattressesmake me feel like I’m walking in one of those padded yellowrooms. Aunt Andria’s voice fights its way through the door, soI kick a pillow against the bottom. I moon bounce back to thedenim couch and collapse. The room is still, except for the smallfan twirling dust particles into the rays of sun. I stare at theceiling kernels and hope nobody comes in.“Hi, Jacob!” Natalie skips in the room on cue. Her straightblonde hair bounces on her shoulders. “What are you doing?”“I’m looking at the ceiling,” I say without looking at her.Natalie stands by the couch. Her big gray eyes are filled withanticipation, then mix with confusion, and finally give way todisappointment. I’ve seen that process on every one of my littlecousins’ faces over the past week. I used to be the funny guy ofour family reunions. Now I’m throwing people off.“Oh,” she says. She stands by the couch for a second,playing with her plastic star necklace. “Are you making themovie with Kylee today?”I smirk at the ceiling. “Probably not,” I answer. Even ifKylee and I still got along, I wouldn’t want to make it, unless peopledidn’t mind the movie being about me looking at the ceiling.Natalie sits on the edge of an air mattress, chewing onher necklace. I say nothing. My cousins usually leave if I don’tcrack a joke in the first few minutes.“Are you still sad about your friend?” She asks. I clenchmy fists and take a deep breath.

“I’m fine,” I reply.“Natalie!” Cidney appears in the doorway. Her chestnutbrown hair is as messy as usual, and her black rimmed glassesare sliding down her nose. She glares pointedly at Natalie.“C’mon. Dinner’s ready.”“’K!” Natalie skips out.“Sorry about that. You can come get dinner whenever.The cousins are eating out on the porch table.” Cidney backsout of the room, closing the door after her. I sigh. I’m not awreck or anything; I just don’t want to deal with the MayesFamily Reunion, especially Aunt Andria. She’s been talking somuch that I now know everything about her work, her childKylee’s rebellious ways, and her soon to be ex-husband’s socialhabits. Even when she’s in a good mood, I can see tears wellingup in her dark eyes. Her curly orange hair makes it look like herbrain froze in the middle of exploding. It’s like having an edgybanshee to the reunion.I sit up and look around the room. Pillow cases withspiky-haired anime characters are smiling at me the same waymy family’s been smiling. They think they can compensate formy mood when really they’re just digging deeper wrinkles.I sigh again and lie back down. The room remains still.There’s nothing to distract me. My mind flashes to the thirdgrade.Robbie and I made a fort in my room out of blankets.I had a bunk bed, which made for the best secret spots. Hebrought rubber bands to tie the blankets, and I brought a “Don’tWorry Be Happy” singing bass to be the fort’s motion detector.That was the summer he began flipping his bangs up, and I wasquick to follow. I copied most of the things he did.“I say that when we get to high school, we start a lawnmowing business,” Robbie announced.“Why would we do that?” I asked.“Because, then we can get money and go to New York orHollywood.”“Do you even know how to mow?” I asked.“We’ll learn,” he said, and we agreed on it. Then his momWalker / 5

called, and I was left alone in the fort with the rubber bandsand the sounds of a fish telling me not to worry.I sit up and shake my head. I don’t want to sit with thatsong bouncing around in my head. At least food will distractme. Besides, I know if I wait too long, one of them will come inand tell me how great the tortillas are and how I just have to try‘em, so I might as well get up.The dining room table is covered with pots and plates. Iscoop the soggy strings of beef and peppers into my powderytortilla. The back door is open, with the voices of my youngcousins coming through it. I grab the red cup marked “Jake!”and walk outside.My cousins are sitting around the plastic table withmismatched chairs. Natalie’s put her hair up in a ponytail,and Cidney is wiping food off Natalie’s face. I don’t know howCidney can be so patient with her. If I were Cidney, I wouldn’tbe able to look at Natalie. But Cidney sits there as if nothingever happened, smiling and caring.I sit down across from Kylee. Kylee is currently goingthrough the way-too-much eye make-up phase. Even worse,her way-too-much-eye-make-up face has intersected with theeverything’s-better-in-purple phase. The ends of her blondehair are fringed with purple to match her purple eye shadow.I’m tempted to ask her for my fortune.Kylee nods at me as I take my seat.“What’s up?” she says.“Nothing much,” I mumble. Kylee stares at me. Shewants me to say what’s wrong. She likes to think of herself asa person who isn’t afraid to ask hard questions. She botheredCidney about how she felt for months. The first time Kyleeasked Cidney flat out: “Do you still miss your mom?”“Kylee!” I scolded. Kylee scowled and shrugged like I wasthe ridiculously inappropriate one. Cidney didn’t say anything.Her long hair was an even frizzier mess than it is now. She hungit over her face so nobody could see or talk to her. Kylee askedthe same question every family reunion until Cidney finallysaid “Yes,” and Kylee didn’t ask again.6 / Blackwater Review

I ignore Kylee and take a bite out of my fajita. The tableis unnaturally silent for a moment.“Let’s play a game!” Natalie suddenly shouts. Theyounger cousins shout in agreement. Last reunion, Kylee and Istarted making up dinner-table games. Like each cousin wouldhave to go around the table and sing a ballad for something ontheir plate. Once I let the little cousins put something in mydrink, and I had to guess what it was. The games were a hugehit, and now they won’t let me forget, always begging to havemy cup with bottles of salad dressing in their hands.“Okay,” I grumble. “Let’s play Who Knows How ManyBeers the Adults Have Had.”Natalie’s mouth falls open. “You mean alcohol?”I smirk at my plate. Cidney tells Natalie to eat her food.Kylee smiles for a second, but it disappears when I look up.I look over at the edge of the yard by the trees. The adultsare sitting in a ring of lawn chairs with a cooler of Miller Litecans in the middle. Aunt Andria is laughing, or maybe crying.Or both. She does that. Grandma is holding one of the babycousins in her lap.“What was his name?”“Quiet, Natalie.” Cidney puts her hand on Natalie’sshoulder.“Who?” I spit. Natalie’s mouth falls open a little.“You know who.” Kylee rolls her eyes. “That friend of yours.”“He wasn’t my friend, and his name was Rob,” I say.Everybody except Natalie and Kylee suddenly becomesengrossed with their tortillas. I grab the open two-literof root beer to give my hands something to do. Itpours into my cup with a weak fizzle. I put the cup to mymouth and instantly cough. The root beer is warm andflat, weighing on my tongue like syrup. I keep drinkingit; I don’t want to put the cup down and meet everybody’sstares.“Hey, anybody want to go down to the beach?”Cidney suggests, sitting up. The younger cousins barktheir enthusiasm, their lips orange and sticky from soda.Walker / 7

Natalie hops up and runs to her pink tennis shoes by theporch stairs. Cidney starts picking up the plates aroundthe table.“What do you mean he wasn’t your friend?” Kylee asks.I slam my cup down, but the root beer swishes lazily in the cup.Kylee stares at me, her eyes in a purple grave.“We used to be friends but we weren’t close when hedied, okay?” How could she not understand that I didn’t wantto explain this? Why should I tell her that Robbie found betterfriends than me? I don’t know why it affected me so much. Hewas an old friend whom I hardly ever spoke to anymore. Butwhen the principal announced it over the speakers, I shattered.Kyleescrunches her nose at me. “Cidney lost her mother,and Natalie never even got to know her, and you’re torn upabout—”“Look, I don’t want to talk about it!” I snap. Cidneyfreezes in the middle of picking up plates, a few strands of herhair dipped in salsa. “Not everybody is like your mom, blurtingout all their problems to anyone who will listen.”Kylee stares at me for a second, and a part of me wishesI had shut up. I almost apologize, but Kylee scoots her chairback and storms off with her plate, so I sit back and sip myoff brand root beer. Kylee and I used to look forward to familyreunions. Last year we sang a duet for the mandatory cousintalent show. We burst into laughter half way through an “Allthat Jazz” routine and couldn’t finish. Everybody liked our actthe best anyway. That was when I still made everybody laugh,and Kylee wasn’t allowed to wear make-up.I stand up and throw the root beer off the edge of theporch. It disappears into the grass with a splat.“Are you going to come with us?” Cidney asks. She isemptying greasy plates and cups into a trash bag. I can tell shewants me to come. She would never say it, though. She wassilent for months after her mom died and didn’t get muchlouder afterward.“Sure,” I say and follow her down the porch.“We’re going to the beach!” Natalie shouts at the adults.8 / Blackwater Review

She grabs a book lying on the porch rail.The houses we pass on the way to the beach have flags hangingabove the doors with pictures of cloudy skies and sunflowers.Some yards have small square gardens, and others have inflatablepools and water guns. Natalie’s sneakers blink red in front.Kylee walks a few paces behind the rest of us.We arrive at the beach as the sun disappears under theocean. The beach is covered with large masses of yellowy brownseaweed, the shore speckled with brown and gray. Natalie andthe younger cousins run to the edge of the water while Cidneysits down and opens her book.Kylee crosses her arms next to me. Neither of us saysanything, but I know we’re both thinking about the movie wemade here last year. She was the superhero, and I was the badguy. We choreographed what we thought was the coolest fightscene ever. We showed it to the family, who of course gave usa standing ovation. Our little cousins asked if they could be inthe next one we made. We said they could, knowing that nexttime we would still sneak off and film it by ourselves. I haddecided I wanted to be a filmmaker.Today was supposed to be the next time we filmed. Iglance at Kylee. She is kicking a pebble on the ground. I try tothink of something to say, but she turns and walks down theshore. I could go after her, but we have nothing to say to eachother. I sit down next to Cidney instead.“Kylee’s really sensitive about her mother,” Cidney saysquietly. I don’t reply.Natalie’s sneakers still blink as she runs away screamingfrom the tide. The water sparkles with white lights, flipping andswaying over itself. Slowly the red in the sky grows darker anddarker. The tide crashes into the rocks on the shore, sprayingvinegary mist in my face. I can’t think. My eyes begin to waterand my throat constricts. There’s nothing to distract me here.Rob and I never went to Hollywood or New York. Wejoked about it the few times we saw each other in high school,but we never started the lawn mowing business, and we neverwent anywhere. I went to a family reunion, and he went to sleepWalker / 9

in front of a steering wheel.I sit as still as I can. Everything around me is movingagain. I can’t keep up if I can’t breathe.“I know how it feels,” Cidney murmurs beside me. Sheis resting her chin on her knees and watching her sister dancearound the tide. Her book is open and pressed into the graysand. I bury my face in my arms to hide my tears. Cidney’sbreath shakes. We’ve never spoken about her mom.“I felt like my life stopped going anywhere. EverywhereI went I was reminded.”My stomach shakes and my eyes burn, but Cidney continues.How could she compare our losses?“I didn’t realize how much she meant, how stable my lifehad been, and when she was gone, I didn’t know what to do.”I lift my head and see Kylee far down the shore, kickingrocks around, and wonder if her home has ever been stable.“How did you get better?” I ask, turning to Cidney.Cidney starts kicking off her shoes.“I don’t know,” she says. “One day it wasn’t so bad. Iremembered all the things I still wanted to do. I remembered abook my friend recommended to me.” Cidney picks up the bookand shakes off the sand. “This one, actually.”Cidney stands up and joins Natalie by the water, herhair tangling even more in the wind. I grab the book and flip itopen, just for a distraction.10 / Blackwater Review

Jasper BrownJerry LeafgreenBlack sunglasses reflect the noonday sunAs he sits motionless in his chair.A hand-rolled cigarette playfully teetersOn the edge of his dry thick lips.A worn guitar relaxes comfortablyOn faded jean-covered legs.A rusted coffee can sits loyallyBeside his shabby, dust-covered boots.A few coins fall like a metallic rainInto the can, breaking the silence.A ghost of a smile cracks his sun-baked faceKnowing hands caress the guitar and play.The first chord strummed is a cool gentle breezeLike the flutter of angelic wings.He bends the next notes till they almost break,Till they moan with a lost soul’s despair.He dares someone to listen with his heartTo the weeping sound of his fingersAs they share the story of his misery.Each chord a broken-hearted lullaby.He bows his head and dabs sweat from his browLetting the tears flow from unseeing eyes.He folds his handkerchief and leans backWaiting to recount the sad story of life.Leafgreen / 11

SorrowA delicately threaded screengiving the impressionthat its fragile filigreeis an aged lace curtainthathangsin the parlorof a harmless old woman.A silken sail loosely wovendeceives the Herculean gripawaiting a victim whowhether careless or carefulis forced by lotteryinto the cruel barricade.I am netted.I am chosen.I am frantic.I am desperate in my attemptto lift the latticedthreads thoroughlyfrom my skin.Wiping.Scraping.Blowing.But later todaythe deceiving sensationof a once stickypresence again tantalizes12 / Blackwater ReviewDeborah R. Majors

arm hairswith its invisible tendrils.I am told by the wise,by the sages of then and nowthe day will come whenthis sorrowholding time’s handwill join me only when I beckon.But no solace no comfortno confidence is foundin their sage-scented wordsas tomorrow after tomorrowI wipe away again and againwispy filamentsbelieving the haunting of this sorrowwill always torture me with its waveringpresencedominating stealing my controlregulating choosing the momentswhen tacky fibers remind of their nonexistence.NoI do not believe the sagesbecause I know this sorrowwill join the collectionof former stringy dividersmartyred and draped across my armwaiting for that surprising expected touchof the unsuccessful fevered wipingthat the sage’s healing herbcannot halt or conquer.~~What is this I see?Ah, a glisten in my parlor’s cornerMajors / 13

a glimpse of time passedthe daughter of a familiar arachnid facepeeringfrom her hiding place.Her mother and her grandmotherI knew by sightthough we never spoke.I nod, acknowledge her power(for every hoary head knowsa creature that devours her matehas power).The eight-limbed body balanceson new, fresh, glue-clad webwhile she contemplates the perfect momentto dance on her elastic tightropeforcing me at the mercy of her whimto remember her elusiveiron-barred domainof skillfully spun nettingthathangsin plain sight.14 / Blackwater Review

I wept for you in the garden.sol receditJia FlynnThose charismatic ministers,all crocodile smiles and newly shined shoes,promised the touch of Jesus would make you whole.But that vengeful Trinity drained your color,whitewashed you in the blood of the lambuntil you were a sad, wrung out rag of a girl.And for the love of god,you let them.The artist within you, covered in paint,a wild, scarlet-haired beauty with fierce eyes,armed with those deadly things: ideasbristling with that dangerous desire — independencescreams,“I want to live a Technicolor life!”But Jesus tells you, “Be blue.”So you’re blue.Three hundred fifty colors at your fingertips,all abandoned, needlepoint in the box.Sleek and polished, aching to be touched.Let go.Indulge in sumptuous, summer violets,and run away with mein the rainbow wake of a thunderstorm’s violence.Living is a citrus explosion,come with me, and tastethe cotton-candy collisionof clouds at the break of day.Flynn / 15

Hallelujah, our human hearts bleed sunlight and wine.But Jesus tells you, “Be blue.”16 / Blackwater Review

Ancient PugDara NorthHer fawn-colored fur has paledto silver sunshineand her velvety black muzzlelooks speckled with white-out.An underbelly once toned and dusky roseis wrinkled and spotted brown.Eyes formerly as lustrous as onyxare now dull and watery and crusted.Her claws grow into her paw pads.Her tail uncurls with exhaustion.She breathes her metallic breath,chews with four teeth,leans heavily to the right,poor little body riddled withgrowths that occasionally weep.My old girl sounds a right mess.The vet murmurs at her sight.But her tongue is candy pink,her mind is tack sharp.She still smiles when I come homeand barks with devastating authorityand burrows against my back at nightever vying for the pillow.Sweet fragile cranky snoring thing.North / 17

CompromiseColby B. FoxThe Sun Also Rises is the greatest book I ever read,But I won’t ask you to read it, or even discuss it,If you promise to never talk about Atlas ShruggedEver again.When we go for long drives on SundayI will leave my Johnny Cash cds at homeIf you’ll promise to lose the anthologyOf Harry Chapin mix tapesYou’ve made for me.The other night we drove to four gas stationsAnd spent our last ten dollarsOn a case of the beer you like.Every placed we stopped had mine.Why do we waste so much timeTrying to convert each other?I feel like some kind of weird missionaryPreaching the gospel of my own interestsTo a heathen who hides the crossword puzzleUntil I go to work.You want me to be like you.I want you to be like me.How long can a relationship lastWhen this is the only reason either of usHas for sticking around?You will know before I will.18 / Blackwater Review

San Francisco: Human Study IAfter the rain,the city is eggshells,onions and garlic.It is the musty stink of sex,and acidic air fills my lungs.Jia FlynnHusks of humanity run raggedon the streets,dried out smoked apples,wrinkled rags reeking of liquor.One mutters to himself — andwe move away from his darkand secret world.Across the streetand into the wind.But I have walked down those tunnelsof bubbled tile and trains fullof men and women with hollow eyes.I rode next to them on the way to Walnut Creek.These people are cracked china dolls,eggshell-bright and vacant-eyed,and I am one of them come to life.A glass and marble city rushingfrom place to place, filledwith the ineffable beauty of life,and all I see are old menwith shopping carts,moving, breathing sculpturemade of the coal refusefrom this diamond city.Fog over the cables.Fog over the bridge.I feel compelled to jump.Flynn / 19

20 / Blackwater ReviewIndecision: My Rocking ChairKyle WebbAs old as the Polaroid.The creaking of woodon wood, shades of grainshown through smooth gloss.How can I choosewhen I can’teven stand?Decrepit bulbsbright on the summer porch,lighting the night,bringing fireflies to life.Until zap, sizzle, wingsfall on fire to ash beneathrolling arches. Rock toand fro. Back and forth.Both ways, the scarecrowpoints. “That way.”How should I go?Hopeless pursuitto fall in ruin.Running down a pipedream, clutchingthe coattails of what?Bitter patiencecollects dust with disuse.The amounting aggravationof heaven’s waiting room.Laughter or tears.Either choicebears both or none.I just can’t decidewhich to chase.

The MonsoonColby B. FoxThe onslaught was unleashed during the night.The clouds had been gathering unseen for daysPlanning their strategy, peeking over the horizon,Biding their time, waiting for just the right momentTo invade the coastal Japanese harbor.The attack had been going on for hours by the time I awoke.The streets had become a swift moving river,Like savage barbarians terrorizing a village.It was shallow, not yet cresting the curb,But still menacing in its way.A text message told me not to bother coming into work.Save myself. Stay home, stay dry.Those noble bastards. I hope they make it.My only comrade is the cat who hangs out on the patio.He has found his way inside. He looks pissed.His yellow eyes are squinted in disapproval.His ears are laid back and his fur is matted downAround his chest like a smelly breast plate.Outside the invasion goes on.The great cloud armada has descendedAnd the rain is everywhere at once,Coming down like a soggy arrow volley.And what about the wind, where is it?Will it be as merciless as the rain?Will it come streaking down from the mountainLike some fierce, invisible cavalry,Overturning cars and ripping away awnings?Fox / 21

A knock at the door puts me and the cat on our guard.I expect to find war-torn refugees.Saturated remnants of a far off-regionWhere this godless weather has ransacked their homes,Destroyed their farms, and has marched on.Instead, I find my friends from down the street.They are splashing through my garage and laughing.They’ve braved the storm in rolled up jeansAnd newspaper pirate hats.They’ve brought sake and Tupperware containersFilled with those fried egg thingsI like so much. The disaster hasn’t touched them.Hell, they’ve been shopping!“What are you doing?” I ask dumbfounded.“The rain…the-the- the clouds…!Aren’t you terrified of the storm for chrissakes?”“No, man.” Keiko says. “Is jes’ monsoon.”22 / Blackwater Review

A Cloudy DayJake VermillionEven as the mist swirls from the Heavens,Even as the dew of the earth rises up to meet itself,Calling the celestial bodies to cloak themselves in obscurity,Provoking the mysterious setting in of the gray skies that committhemselves to the interrogation of our eyes,Even as the sun withholds its rays from the earth,Even as the cool green blades of grass search for her majesty,Shouting for the renewal of the clouds gilded in sunlight,Provoking the eternal cry of desperation when the earth and thesky part to provide the onslaught of rain, I wait.Vermillion / 23

Daughter of Laura AshleyJoy JulioDaughter of a dress, a covering cloth funnelpossessing a gaudy floral print, a horrible hemline.Never a runway masterpiece—just a used,shapeless flour sack, rough and functional.There’s no fit, form, or flattery here. Made for a womantaller and more full-figured, a hand-me-down.Because of that I can’t simply donatethis closet-bound shroud to Goodwill,a betrayal of blood and fabric.She was a gift.After all, I’ll just grow into her later.24 / Blackwater Review

WeatheredKyle WebbThe weathervane. The rust red rooster jerking in thewind atop the roof. It’s an antique now. I can relate.It was next to new, lying on a table at the flea market.Gwyn loved it. The spark in her eyes as her fingers glided overthe rough wrought iron surface. My face was all grin. Best tenbucks spent on the new house yet.Forty two years. Half the tail feathers are gone now,along with the S. As a New Yorker, Gwyn thought it funnythat only the S went. It squeaks, turning with each Midwesterngust.Not too long ago I nearly broke my neck because of it.Winds got bad and a twister warning had been issued. Gwyndidn’t want me to risk it, but I went up anyway. I saved thescrap from being blown to oblivion. Slipped on the damn laddercoming down. Just a close call, but still.I’m not looking forward to doing it again. But it’s forher. It was her baby. Barren, she latched onto the weathervaneinstead. I suggested a puppy. She just smiled. She’d be happythat it still holds up.My eyes squint as I stare up at it. The sky is darkening.“Storm’s a comin,’” as they would say. “No,” I’d reply. “Italready came.”Webb / 25

Circling high abovein a bruised sky,troubled cloudsbrood and schemeto drown the sun.Black birds swirllike spilt inkand curse the solstice.The fall wind clawsat barren treeswith frozen fingers.Dead autumn leavesheed the master’s calland rustle intheir shallow graves.Brittle, arthritic limbssway against their will,dancing to the silentsymphony of change.ChangeJerry Leafgreen26 / Blackwater Review

VirtueMatt PiersonShe was seated in the third row about six persons fromthe middle aisle. The people weren’t sitting close together,though; the gaps spanned from two to ten inches. Her handswere neatly set in her lap, thumbs on top, fingers mixed together.She was at rapt attention and, to her knowledge, so waseveryone else.The church sanctuary was filled to standard capacity,that is, about 85% full. There was a man on stage, and he wassaying things like “Paul only makes one allowance for divorce”and “However, Jesus said in Matthew, Chapter Two, that if aman lusts after a woman, then he has committed adultery withher already in his heart.”She fiddled with her wedding band, tapped her foot, butbecame enraptured again. There was a boy on her left who wassitting in the maroon-clothed pew ten feet down the row fromher. He was swinging his short legs and sitting on his handsand humming to himself. He was humming “Come Thou Fount,”the hymn they had sung before the pastor started preaching.She smiled and asked to no one, “The trouble is, when do youknow that your spouse is cheating on you in their heart?”Marie, her friend who was sitting on her right, leaned over.“When they start going down to the bar every day fortwo hours after work, is when.”Rose smiled again.Marie steamed on: “Don’t be so sure that yours was soin love when he died, either, Rose. It’s better that he died; hecan’t cheat if he’s dead.” She looked at Marie and tried to giveher that wide-eyed look that said “I love you” but without interruptingthe sermon.Rose looked back at the preacher after she was done andunfolded her hands and tapped her foot. The little boy on herleft was still swinging his legs, but his parents had already toldhim to stop once. He caught her glance, sheepishly looked away,Pierson / 27

and stopped swinging his legs. He took his hands out fromunder him and then tapped a little beat on his legs. The beatwas to the melody of “Come Thou Font.” He felt her gaze again,glanced up, then down and stopped. He put his hands in hispockets and stared blankly at the preacher. Rose looked back atthe preacher; his face was red from the heat of his oratory andthe heat of the South. He was just getting to the overall ideabehind his whole sermon: God decides when and if one shoulddivorce.Rose looked and saw a couple across the aisle. Theywere young, and in love, and obviously not paying attention.They were holding hands and staring straight ahead, and everyfew seconds one of them would glance at the other. Every fiveminutes (or so) they attracted Rose’s attention by shifting positionsin their pew as if they hadn’t gotten used to the feel ofthe other. Rose smiled when she thought of that. The pastorclosed his sermon with a prayer, a prayer to enable the hearts ofall to see God’s will in all their actions and daily life. No matterwhat they were having trouble with, God would help them intheir need. Rose glanced up from her bowed position. She sawthe couple massaging each other’s hands. She saw the little boyswinging his legs. She saw Marie massaging her empty left ringfinger. Rose touched her own wedding band, folded her hands,tapped her foot and smiled.28 / Blackwater Review

Ol’ Blue Eyes croonsas you swoonin the moonlight.Silky smoothand clichédtill the sun goes down.Time after time,and all for nothing.The blast of brasswhen you’re horny.A little sax whenyou face the factsand see that life’sall Days of Our Lives.Keys lead in faithfulfashion when youreminisce, wishingto relive those PreciousMoments. It had to be you.No others would do.For those blonde bobbysoxers screaming.Just wonderful you.Posing for paparazzi,claiming the hot seat,lounging the throne.All that moneyyou see yourselfswimming in. It’sthat easy listening.That voice like no other.Yeah, man. That’s whatit is. That record, man.Curse of the CroonerKyle WebbWebb / 29

Frank Sinatra.Yeah, that’s whatyou call it. Desire.*First place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest,200930 / Blackwater Review

DistinctionDara NorthCougarsAre they:Stalking us over the rocky terrainAvidly eyeing our jugularsAs we graze on shrubs.They see our outward appearance andThink we’re fluff(Sweet mistaken for weak).They want to make a kill.YetSo intent are theyOn one aspect thatThey don’t seeOur lupine eyesCarefully assessing them;The hasty concealment ofJagged canines under smooth lips;The stealthy flex of clawsBeneath the guise of cloven hooves.Oh!How astonished are theyWhen we snarlAs they pounce(Revelation most untimely).We stand our ground,Force their retreat, andMake them see thatJust because we’re lambsDoesn’t make us sheep.North / 31

Porch Light SisterChristian WalkerThe wheels stop and shove against the gravel.I place my hand on the door handle.Darkness sifts through the air like smog,molding to the shape of my car.But a deep yellow light rips a hole through the dense blanket.She shines the brightest in the dark.I’m not that bright. I slump down the driveway,pushing aside crackly leavesand stubbing my toes on gray stumps.But she reminds me where home is,a lighthouse for the lonely driver.As I make my way closer,I see a few insects orbiting around her like twitchy moons.When they get too close, she sets the bugs on fire,sending them hurtling like meteors to the dusty welcome mat,wings twitching and legs curling in like burnt twigs.Her golden light can be deceiving.Sometimes she fizzes outwith a buzz or a bang,reminding meI can find my own way home.32 / Blackwater Review

Max and the MonstersAdam GuilesMax is a quiet boy, only nine years old;Full of good manners, never catches cold.Obedient and docile, shy and thin,He longs to go places he’s never been.At eight in the evening, he’s promptly sent to bedWhere somber dreams travel through his tiny head.Other boys dream of living in castles far off.Max has adventures with Lon Chaney, Jr. and Boris Karloff.Each night he is met by these monsters in makeupAnd, hands joined, they hurry before it’s time to wake up.Ambling together through misty forests dark and still,They at last spy a house on a grim haunted hill.As Max approaches, the door opens on its ownIn a slow arc backwards as the rusty hinges moan.Inside the eerie darkness lurks something quiet and unknown;The Wolf Man growls with menace and the monster gives a groan.“Good evening,” greets a voice in quiet, gentle tones.The lamps go up slowly, sending a chill to Max’s bones.The empty room yields not a single soul in sightAs the trio gaze about, seeking their host for the night.“I’m the Invisible Man” explains a voice which played him twiceIn the soft, sinister accent of none other than Vincent Price.Guiles / 33

“Now that you’ve arrived, my friends, we are ready to begin.We couldn’t start without you, so make haste and please go in.”Another door creaks open, revealing a lone coffin.As a curious Max approaches, it starts to slowly open.Who can be inside? Which lonely creature of the night?A dead white hand appears, and a figure sits upright.“I bid you welcome,” he smiles, and everyone must know heIs the undead Count Dracula, immortalized by Bela Lugosi.Another famous monster comes to join him at his side;In flowing white robes stands Frankenstein’s bride.“And now” the count declares, “we cannot wait a second more.Long have we been waiting to present what is in store.”In the back of the dark room, an antique projector rumblesAnd from its dusty lens a column of light tumbles.A cinematic score brings excitement to every creature,As they hurriedly seat themselves to enjoy the double feature.Frankenstein and The Wolf Man; Max’s imagination churnsAs a monster transforms by moonlight and a lonely windmill burns.When the pictures finish, he asks “All this time, where have you been?”They respond “In your imagination, where you can visit us again.”And so each night Max journeys to the theater of his mind’s eye,Where gloom and shadow give comfort and monsters never die.34 / Blackwater Review

Center StageTawanah ReevesLights:Blinding, burning, building,escalating to temperaturesof untold and unknown parameters.Uncovering, unveiling, and revealingevery makeup mistake I want to hide.Camera:Flashing, firing, filming,capturing moment to momentmaneuvers right, wrong, and indifferent.Seeing, freezing, and keepingthe upstage movement I wanted downright.Action:Moving, motivating, morphing,transforming mere words into a living willfilled with the make-believe made real.Hearing, knowing, understandingthe precise picture I painted for my audience.Curtain:Curtsying, caring, cheering,leaving behind another world,another people, another age only knownfor a few moments and an eternity at a time.Waving, loving, waitingfor the next night on my center stage.Reeves / 35

36 / Blackwater ReviewBird with No NameJia FlynnI met Wren Andrews over the counter of a StarbucksCafe in a chain bookstore. I was on a business trip down in a resorttown in Northwest Florida, and jonesing for some caffeine.The second I had a foot over the threshold, the smell of warmpeanut butter cookies greeted me along with a singing “Goodmorning! Be right with you, sir!”My skinny vanilla latte with an extra shot came across thepseudo-marble counter top at me in record time, accompanied bythe punch line to a joke she’d begun over pulling the espresso.An honest smile, admittedly snaggle-toothed. A shockof pink hair and a pan-American accent. Three bright silverpiercings in her left ear. A limp, a nervous stammer and a braceon her right hand.Over a month or so, in between meetings and baskingin the sun-warmed glory of fifth-floor balcony beach-frontview, I got to know Wren Andrews. I learned that Wren wasa pseudonym, and, thank you, she didn’t need another olderman stalking her, she’d had enough.Wren called me Mister Sir. I never told her my name.She told me I didn’t need to. She knew me as my drink, thesound of my shoes and my terrific taste in ties.Occasionally, Wren would say something beyond thesmall talk of customer service, a cynical quip about gun rightsand the idiocy of the current American government, a fewsnatches of Shakespeare, a brief anecdote about her time as amusician. Wren scrabbled as an illustrator and chased stormsfor fun and traveled to New York once to play in Carnegie Hall.You never forget that, she’d said.Wren confessed to me she went to college only becauseshe was on her parents’ insurance and couldn’t avoid therapy.I watched her with the other customers, freelancingfrom time to time as a psychologist, a business advisor, a matchmaker,an entertainer and a mediator. I saw her shy before her

superiors, give way to pushy, frustrated co-workers, stammerin front of the mass of fat, sun-burnt Southerners that camein wanting “a plain ole coffee, dammit, and don’t you put nonethat flavor shit in it. I just want a damn coffee.”When it got really dead, she’d stand behind the dingyregister and stare off with black eyes into the land of fiction.Leaning forward, chin cupped in one small hand, Wren’s expressiondarkened. The light melted off her face and left her asa storm gathered over Choctawhatchee Bay.“What’s wrong?” I’d asked, moving away from my curtainof the Wall Street Journal.“Regret’s a bitch,” and she smiled.“What do you mean?”“Just is.”Flynn / 37

Love Letter from the Crestview HiltonLoren BoyerYou are my gated community.Safe inside your eyes,I hide your photo in my mailand remember moving with you.Like lightning on a lake,cats celebrating the dark,we screamed together.No amateur orange jump-suit dealersrattling spoons on metal cotsbarking at the lock-down.No shared shittersand gold-tooth threats grinning.We’ll have an estatewith giant walls, oak-linedand a black iron gate.No crack-head will stealyour picture if I turn my back.38 / Blackwater Review

Self PortraitChalk, PastelChelsea Alford39

Old Country Farm HouseOilSon Hae Allen40

Man with the HatPastelJoan M. Langham41

Under the Everlasting ArmsPhotographChristina Faulkner42

Cherry BlossomsOilChris Sirico43

WitherConte Crayon / CharcoalLizzy Chalonpka44

Dealing with MenRakuAnita Hester45

GrowthStonewareKayla M. Richter46

Not the Ending She EnvisionedMixed MediaDara North47

BugMixed MediaAdam Thair Stevens48

Back TattooPhotographLola Miles49

Under the BridgePhotographSamantha Johnson50

The AppleWatercolorRhoda Ramirez de Arellano51

Ice PlantPhotographEdward J. Lewis52

Tanjoor Painting (Gayathri)Watercolor and Gold FoilAasha Sriram53

Oxidation StationPhotographJane Montgomery54

SkullWatercolorRhoda Ramirez de Arellano55

Life is Just a Bowl of Dark Sweet CherriesWatercolorAnna Koester56

Windy DayOilSon Hae Allen57

PhilodendrumPastelRhoda Ramirez de Arellano58

EyesoreDigital CollageJoshua Engelkens59

Chasing CarsMixed MediaEdanette Marquez60

Ginko’s Golden GlowWatercolorSharon James61

Sight and SoundColored PencilEdanette Marquez62

In Loving Memory 1982-2008GraphiteEmily M. Knudsen63

Venetian GlassblowerOilChris Sirico64

First StopOilStephanie Crow65

White IrisOilEmily M. Knudsen66

Uncle Jimmy’s Riverhouse, DemopolisOilSandra Clay Harrison67

Tropical BeautyOilSon Hae Allen68

Entities of ColorDye on SilkAnita Hester69

PerseveranceRakuKayla M. Richter70

White NoiseKyle WebbDeep aisles of multicoloredproducts. Eyes peer between boxesof dry and drab: Ritz, Jif,Coffeemate. Aluminumcylinders of condensed mushpose as pieces in a gamewith Deep Blue. Tap, tap,shuffle, squeak, tap, shuffle.“Attention shoppers. The ownerof a red Chevy Nova, yourlights are on.” Springsteenand Bowie, the deafeningroar of the ordinary nothing:Omnipresent, inaudible.Hush—like that quietyou only noticeas something tragic:Helen Keller on Jeopardy.Death in associationwith static, noise:UniformWhiteTelevision snow.Suffocation by wavesand radiation,a post-modern,suburban novel clutchedto the heart of a Liberal Artsmajor like a mummifiedPharaoh.Let the Muzak flow.Webb / 71

For My Father Who Isn’t a Rock Star But Might HaveBeen If He Weren’t OrdainedJoy JulioFather: Ex Rock Star.Maybe he was big when hair and synthesizers were.And when shirts were sequined.Maybe he still thinks he’s big and that his clothing glitters.Platinum records and magazine covers,lipstick-caked fan mail and t-shirts of his face.They’re all water-stained testaments to packed arena concertsthat he holds onto with white knuckled-fists.Pilgrims come still but not in microbuses or on motorcycles.He is eager to please them.They honor and praise and if they take advantage of his autographs,lay them upon a pyre to eBay, he won’t mind.He’ll feel blessed to help.He says he is a servant to the deity of RockWhen Rock demands sacrifice, he sacrifices,smashing one flaming Les Paul after another.He’s no longer revered and won’t be beatified.Pope George Ringo II makes no allowancesfor either this world’s has-beens or the next’s.Unfazed and unashamed, my father still plays a revival concert or two.The rest of the time he spends alone.He is locked away in his acoustic sanctuarywith his leathers and amplified altars to Rock.I might forget he was thereif it weren’t for the soundof his constant practicing.72 / Blackwater Review

Virgin Daiquiris in New York CityClarence Norbert Quinlan, IVMy reflection glared at me, the slender face tauntingme with his mockery. The image in the mirror scanned my facewith a disapproving air, his eyes widening as they locked onto the newest aberration forming on my face. The pimple, ifyou could call something so beastly such a simple word, hadtaken root in the ridge of my nose, directly between the eyes.A perfect target for snipers. Its white head stood straight andproud, growing every second. Not even the globs of cover-up Ihad swiped from my sister could hide this beast. I slapped thetiny car mirror shut; it did nothing for my looks.I stepped out of my Mom’s van onto freshly laid pavement.I hated the smell. You could taste the road worker’s sweatmixed in the concrete. I looked up at the school before me. Everybuilding was a different size, shape or design. The odd, angularbuildings near the front glistened in all their post-modern glory,trying hard to hide the aged brick buildings behind them. Yep,definitely a community college.“Honey, have a nice time tonight, and don’t forget whatI told you this morning.”I faced my mother.“If you forget to take the trash out again, I’m takingaway everything that’s dear to you. Have a nice night.” Andwith a smile, she closed the door in my face.Nothing like a violent threat to start off prom night. Thevan pulled away with a shriek, leaving me alone in the massiveparking lot. Bright neon lights flashed in the windows of thecommunity hall, the thumping dance beats drumming like acannibalistic chant. By the looks of things, the dancing hadalready started, or as I called it, clothed intercourse.My date’s plastic corsage case crinkled awkwardly in mysweaty hand; I stared at the small collection of roses and frill. . . the first prom date test was approaching. Even now I couldQuinlan / 73

not recall whether it was the dress or the hand that I tied theflower to. Either way, with my luck, I’d just end up sticking herwith the pin by accident. And if she wasn’t the one going homewith open wounds, it would be me.The safety pin holding my pants together poked awkwardlyinto my lower stomach. Each jab just ingrained thereminder even deeper, that this freshly dry cleaned suit wasonly a mish mash of Goodwill deals and third year hand-medowns.Suddenly I felt the pin undo around my pants and thatfamiliar sound. POP. My black slacks dropped a few inches asthe safety pin snapped out of place. Third time tonight. Thiscan’t be a coincidence. After checking the barren parking lot forpeering eyes, teachers, or lucky news crews, I re-attached mymakeshift fly. Mother had sworn that this downgraded Swissknife would hold my faded pants together.“Better a pin to fly than a button to hold,” she had kept repeating.Though I had no earthly idea what that could even beginto mean, I took solace in the fact that I had three spare pins inmy jacket pocket. I walked slowly in the direction of the drummingmusic, taking each step with careful precision and poise.The tune now bursting forth had switched to a familiar reggaehit that I had done my best to avoid on the radio. I reached thefront doors and made my way through a line of aging femaleswho all seemed to shoot me strained and slightly confusedlooks. Maybe my pin had popped without my noticing. I doublechecked my business: all clear. Still they stared, concentratedand bewildered. It could be my Indian jewel of a zit they weresneering at; I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it had gone off allover them. I reached to check when a lady whose age seemed tobe cheating death piped up.“I…don’t see you on the list, sir. Are you a collegiate student?”Her voice was nails on a chalkboard, but I managed to respond.“Uh, actually no, but my ticket should work; my name isright ther—““Nice try, son, but I think the Fleetmill High prom mightbe the address you were looking for.” The old lady wore a hat oflarge bright red flowers and highly tinted sun glasses.74 / Blackwater Review

In seconds my brain registered a sharp, witty responseand was on the brink of unleashing it when another voice, alovely voice, cut me off.“It’s okay, Ms. Meyer.”I spun my body to face her.“He’s with me,” Amélie said in a soft but firm voice.She stepped into the light, and I felt every nerve endingin my face erupt into a brilliant blush. She looked breathtaking,to say the least. Her white gown fit her figure like a customdesigned glove, the train falling to the floor in piles of satinand frill. Her dark brown hair was pulled up into a fancy doof considerable polish. A few curly locks dangled out of placeat precise locations around her neck, accenting her smootholive skin. It was Amélie Lynd, my best friend since as longas I could remember, and the most wonderful girl I had everlaid eyes on. Amélie and her family had transferred to the areafrom Port-Grimaud, France, when I entered the third grade. Wewere placed into the same class, where we discovered our innertalent, Four Square. We quickly bonded over a mutual love ofthe game. Now at the innocent age of seventeen, not only wasshe the most desired girl in the North Shore area, but she hadbeen chosen as class president two years in a row. Amélie, thegirl I was unfortunately completely in love with.She reached up and adjusted my poor tie knotting job.“You look quite dashing yourself, Mr. Weston.”I smiled as a second wave of heat crossed my face, positivemy disposition strongly resembled a beet. I let out a smalllaugh. “Sorry…wow, you look, beautiful,” I stammered.Her eyes lit up and she broke into the childish grin Iadored. “Well, thank you. That’s my job, buddy.” She grabbedmy hand and led me quickly through the double doors, towardthe pounding music and spinning strobe lights, and right intothe den of strange and hormonal teenagers. I sighed but thensucked it back in; this was what I signed up for.The hall was very long and rectangular with extremelyhigh ceilings. The walls were covered in cardboard shapes of cityskylines and skyscrapers. A canvas sheet painted in deep darkQuinlan / 75

lue with dots of yellow served as the night sky and backing forthe city façade surrounding us. Apparently this year’s themefor prom was “Nights in New York City”; it was astoundinghow desperate these collegiate folk were to escape their ownreality. The layout of the room was simple enough: tables setup in no particular pattern, a dance floor located obnoxiouslyin the middle of room. In the left corner there appeared to bea mini bar that was bringing in a generous amount of business.I allowed myself a double take at this scene; wow, they actuallyhad a mini bar. At Fleetmill High going all out for an eventmeant unlimited pizza flavored bagel bites and Budweiserspikedpunch, if they were lucky.Amélie still held my hand tightly, navigating me throughthe swirling hurricane of extravagant dresses and dark cloudsof tuxedo rentals. This mine field of delicate fabrics and expensiveheels seemed to never end as we weaved back and forththrough the pulsating crowd. We finally emerged from thestorm, and I paused to take a deep breath, but Amélie wouldhave nothing of it.“Come on, James,” she yelled through the poundingmusic. “I want you to meet some of my friends!”We stopped at a table near the back of the room whereabout five or six teenagers were seated; a few of the girls werechatting, most were texting, and the guys looked like stiffbut suave wax figures. Their haircuts were uniform in shape,all somewhat resembling umbrellas with upturned ends andbleached tips. This was definitely the popular kids’ table.Amélie pushed me slightly in front of her. “Hey, guys, this isJames, my friend I told you about.”She smiled widely and turned to me with pleading eyes; Iguessed that was the signal for me to say something clever or funny.I fumbled with my coat buttons and did a half wave.“Uh, yeah . . . hey guys. What’s up?”No one moved. The girls continued to text and the guystook tiny sips on their drinks. I think I heard one mumble somethingthat came out sounding like low bubbling. Amélie turnedtowards me and mouthed a word that looked apologetic when a76 / Blackwater Review

leached blonde to my right slapped her phone shut and lookedup towards me. Her make-up caked face scanned me once overbefore switching into a snide smile she probably reserved for hermother and ugly babies. Her leering gaze switched to Amélie.“Where is Austin? Last I checked you were supposed tobring your boyfriend to prom.” She shot me another look. “ButI guess that was sweet of you to bring a Fleetmill High kid. ”She held back a laugh. “They don’t get out much.”Wow, I liked this one already.“Austin is sick,” Amélie said through clenched teeth.“Lindsey, I’ve told you this twice already.”Lindsey sighed sarcastically. “Whatever, girl. All I’msaying is tonight could have been the night for you andAustin.”I barely heard Amélie’s breath catch above the roar of the dancemusic. Her bottom lip trembled slightly before she gatheredher dress and headed off into the crowd. Lindsey didn’t seemto notice; she was already texting again.I turned to follow Amélie, but the mass of people hadalready swallowed her up. Pushing through the lines of people,I scanned the area. Everyone looked the same; every color andshade of dress seemed to blend together into a pool of murkywhitewash. She was nowhere to be seen. Amélie had told meabout her “friends,” especially Lindsey. I couldn’t say I was surprised,though; people like Lindsey and her band of cohortswere exactly what I had warned Amélie about when she toldme about joining this school. Their methods were precise andlethal. If you were pretty and especially if you were impressionable,they would reel you in with their flattery, secretlystick their feeding tubes into you and proceed to suck yourhappiness and self worth until you fell into their ranks, orshriveled up to the point of being useless. Maybe I was a littlebitter, maybe not.I stopped near the mini bar and grabbed a stool. Thebar, like the rest of the room, was styled as New York City atnight, right down to the yellow moon backdrop behind thefake window. Various bottles of fine wine and vintage alcoholicQuinlan / 77

everages lined the front counters, all empty, of course. The realdrinks being served tonight were imitation cocktails, non-alcoholicstrawberry daiquiris and the like. I tapped the bartenderand ordered a Manhattan cocktail, easy on the whip cream. Ichecked my watch. 9:34. I noticed the ink message written onmy palm had smeared, but most of the words still remained.They read “Tell her tonight—do it!” The rest of the note hadbeen blurred beyond recognition.There had been many times throughout the yearswhen I came close to telling Amélie how I felt. Fortunatelymy sensible side had won out each time a crack formed inmy resolve. In Amélie’s mind I was the brother she neverhad, a position that provided front row seats to her rapidlychanging love life and emotionally charged rants. The lateston her buffet of male suitors was Austin, an Abercrombiemodel Amélie continually raved about. But I looked aroundthe room and smiled a smug grin. It wasn’t Austin at her sidetonight; he was at home eating worms. Tonight, she was mygirl. I grabbed a napkin and scrubbed my hand clean; myCarey Grant scene would have to wait. My order slid acrossthe counter and into my hand when the stool next to megroaned loudly. I watched the fellow struggle to find a goodbalance on the chair, heaving and breathing violently. Hewas a plump kid, with oiled back hair and a suit two sizestoo small. I began to count the number of his chins when hislarge hand slapped my shoulder.“I’ll have whatever he’s havin’,” he shouted to thebartender. He threw his hand forward towards me, almostforcing me to shake it.“Stubbs McLean,” he said through of mouthful ofpretzels and punch. “Happy to meet cha.”His voice was rough but jovial, almost like he’d beensmoking for ages. His cocktail arrived and he swiped it up,downing the glass in one motion. His face grimaced at thedrink’s carbonated bite, and he wiped his mouth on hisalready stained shirt cuff.“Did you know,” he said as he signaled for another78 / Blackwater Review

drink, “the odds of my girlfriend ditching me tonight werefairly low?” The smile dropped from his face, and he turnedhis head to stare off to the left. “But now, I’m not too sure.”I followed his gaze across the room into a dark cornerwhere a couple sat making out. Stubbs turned away, taking aloud, long sip on his second round. I felt bad for this stranger,but I was unsure as to the action to take. Maybe Amélie knewthis guy; perhaps she could give him someone else to spill hisangst upon. In a desperate attempt to escape, I stood and said,“Sorry, Stubbs, that’s, that must be rough.”I jumped when his sweaty hand clutched mine andsqueezed quite hard. He pulled me slowly towards him, and hestared deep into my eyes. I tried to pull back but his iron gripforced me closer. He stopped three inches away from my face,and silently I prayed he wouldn’t kiss me.“Thank you,” he whispered, his salty breath hitting mefull force. “Thank God for friends like you.” He suddenly let mego and stood out of his stool, lifting his hands high into theair.“Friends,” he shouted, addressing the crowd that paidno attention to him, “I’m afraid it’s time I took my leave. Mystay has been far over extended, and it’s just now occurred tome that my favorite TV show, Mystery Science Theater, is on.”When his speech ended he turned to face me, and Ifinally saw the tears streaming down his face. “I’m going to getsome cake,” he sniffled. “And then, probably get out of here.”He slurped down the little bit of cocktail that remained andturned away.“Hey, man, you sure you’re okay?” I asked.He stopped for a moment, and rubbed his greasy haireven flatter against his head.“Hey, Joe,” Stubbs muttered, motioning to man behindthe counter, “how ‘bout another round for my friend; he’sgonna need it.”He flipped a single shiny nickel, which landed directly inthe palm of the confused bartender.“Um, it’s more than a nickel, Stubbs,” Joe said. But StubbsQuinlan / 79

had already disappeared into the swirling mix of teenagers.I finished paying for both the drinks when Amélie suddenlyappeared at my side.“There you are!” she said through a beaming smile. “I’vebeen looking all over for you. I was afraid Lindsey and herfriends had strung you up somewhere.”I had been slightly annoyed for being left alone in thisbrothel house of pain, but when she smiled into my eyes likethat, she could stick a chopstick in my ear and I wouldn’t care.Yes, smitten would be a good word for it. I was in deep smitt.“Where have you been?” I asked. “How could you leaveme alone with these animals?”“It builds confidence,” she teased. “Speaking of confidence. . . were you about to buy me a drink?”I reached for my wallet when I realized that my friendStubbs had cleared me out of funds with his unpaid cocktails.Bullocks, now I’m lanky, unpopular, AND poor.She read my unsure expression and just laughed.“Don’t worry about it. I’d rather dance anyway.”My heart nearly stopped as I felt myself being againdragged across the room, towards the pulsating heart of theroom.“Couldn’t we just see what Lindsey is up to?” I shouted.“We could sketch on napkins.” I yelled as loud as I could, but themusic did a fine job of drowning me out. Before I had time toplea again, I found myself thrust into the middle of a hundredsweaty, gyrating bodies. I stood awkwardly, trying not to betoppled by the occasional hip thrust and arm extension. Thelights flipped on and off in rapid fire motion, the unrelentingbeat pounding into my being with the force of a train engine. Ifelt as though I might get sick as my head began to swim. Mybody barely stood erect, like a flagpole being tossed back andforth in a storm. I opened my eyes and tried to focus. I watchedher turn and sway to the music; she appeared to be enjoyingherself, almost like she was dreaming. Maybe I was simply doingit all wrong. I gazed at Amélie and did my best to imitate hermotions. I twisted my hips and shook my rear just like she did,80 / Blackwater Review

moving my hands in circular rhythms to the music. I thought Iwas getting it. I could almost feel the music like a wave beneathme. A stronger beat struck and I got even more into it. I slid tothe left, then to the right and jerked up quickly when I noticedAmélie pausing to smile at me. I sent her a returning smile. “Ithink I’m getting the hang of this!”But that’s when I noticed some other couples stoppingto smile, and a few started laughing.“You dance like a chick, dude!” someone shouted.Hoots and whistles began erupting from the crowd asall attention on the dance floor turned to me.“Sexy,” a girl laughed. I stood frozen in place, the wavesof heat smothering me and holding me motionless. My eyesjerked from one laughing face to the next. I felt as though Imight pass out when suddenly a soft hand grabbed mine andpulled me through the crowd of leering faces.We emerged from the hall into the cool night air, and Itook in a deep, panicked breath. I leaned up against the brickwall and slowly slid down to the pavement sidewalk, and that’swhen I heard it. POP. The safety pin on my fly sprang loose,letting the flaps of my slacks hang slightly open. I quicklygrabbed the two ends and held them together, but not beforeAmélie noticed my exposed undershirt and boxers. She held herhand up to her mouth to cover a small smile that was growing,and a rage suddenly grew in me.“I’m sorry, Amélie, okay?” I shouted, standing to myfeet. “I apologize for being your date tonight. I’m sorry Ashton,or Austin or whoever he is, couldn’t be here to take you anddance right for you.”She looked visibly hurt, but at the moment, that wasexactly my intent.“And those people in there? Those are your friends?Amélie, they’re nothing but leeches! Why won’t you believeme? You never do anymore.”She rolled her eyes slightly and looked away.“And poor Austin is all alone at home sick. But noworries. Good old James can work as a back-up plan any day.Quinlan / 81

Well, I’m happy to help—”“He’s not sick,” she whispered.I paused for a moment, trying to reestablish myselfafter being interrupted mid-rant.“What? Who…who’s not?” I stammered.She stared off into the distance, a look of pain growingon her face.“Austin. He’s not sick. Last night, he kinda broke upwith me, over the phone.”A cold shiver ran down my spine, and I took a small stepbackwards, eyes open, mouth shut.“I didn’t want to tell everyone right away, and comingto prom dateless would be kind of obvious.” She ran her palmagainst her eyes and let out a low laugh.“Sorry for dragging you along into my pity party, James;it was selfish of me.”And with that she picked her gown off the floor andwalked down the sidewalk into the darkness.Again, I stood alone by the empty parking lot. Maybethis is where I belonged, away from the danger of ruiningsomeone’s night or making myself look like a completefool. I think they have establishments for people like me. Ilooked up into the night sky; the moon was full and bright,but still the blanket of stars shone through. I gathereda strange sense of peace from the random web of lightsabove me. So intricate yet so masterfully held into placewith perfection. An expanse of beauty that seemed closeenough to reach out and touch. That is life, I suppose.This night had not gone according to plan in theslightest. I had run the plan of eventually telling Améliehow I feel over and over again in my head. It seemed flawless.I knew subconsciously that I would never actuallyattempt such a confession, but at least I could have beenthere for her tonight. Amélie didn’t need another guy tosweep her off her feet, to make her feel complete. What sheneeded, and especially needed tonight, was someone therefor her when she was broken. I had failed at the only thing82 / Blackwater Review

I was good for. I stared off down the sidewalk where shehad gone. There was still time, and tonight was not one forselfish romance.I fixed my fly and followed the walk until it ended, breakingoff into a trail that led to the baseball and softball fields. Thedarkness was thick around me as I made my way down the path,doing my best to avoid the low hanging branches and limbs. Iemerged from the woods and scanned the open expanse. Thelight from the moon lit everything in a pale blue color, providingjust enough light to see. It took only moments to spot herwhite gown in the soft lunar light. She had climbed onto one ofthe dugouts along the baseball diamond. Amélie and I had beenhere many times to stargaze, or when a particular big showerwas announced. I walked quietly down to where she lay andhopped up on the side of rusty dugout. She lay silent on the flatof her back, eyes open and thoughtful.“Amélie.” It came out as a hoarse whisper, and I clearedmy throat. “Hey, it’s James.”She lay still.“Amélie, I’m sorry. That was wrong of me to accuse youlike I did. I feel just like a real loser. And I’m sorry.”She finally turned her head and smiled at me, but I couldsee where the tears had not fully dried on her cheek.“It’s okay, James. I needed to hear something like that.”She motioned for me to join her, and I climbed up to lie in thespot beside her.“Besides, what are friends for but to tell you like it is?”She shifted her weight and turned towards me. “James, I justwant you to know, well, thank you for being my friend. You’vealways been there for me, even when I didn’t deserve anyfriends at all.”I smiled back at her, into her lovely brown eyes.“Sure thing, doll face,” I said. “It’s my job, and it pays well.”She jabbed her elbow in my ribs and a shrill laugh escaped.We both fell silent for a moment, until Amélie suddenlyspoke up. “James, are you happy?”I pondered her question silently. I had always associatedQuinlan / 83

happiness with falling in love and other romantic fascinations. Butas I lay there with her beside me, I realized something for the firsttime. I was only truly happy when she was happy. I felt at peacewhen she was at peace. Right now, what she needed was her oldfriend. I was what she needed. I took in a deep sigh of night air.“Yeah, I’m happy.”I could hear the smile through her words.“So am I,” she said softly.We remained in that spot all night, reminiscing, andpicking out shapes in the stars. The hours passed like seconds.“Don’t you see it?”I stared into the night sky, my eyes squinting againstthe glare of the blue moon.“Right . . . ” Amélie grabbed my hand and began outliningthe shape she swore she saw. “ . . . there. Those two brightones are the eyes, and the moon is his mouth.”She turned towards me, lunar light dancing in her eyes. Mygaze returned to the dark blue canopy above me; this was so silly,but humoring her might make me appear smart and creative.“Oh wait, those two stars?”She nodded her head yes, squealing with delight.“I see it now,” I lied. “Wow, neat.” I turned away from her,my elbows scraping against the shingles atop the damp roof.I slipped my hand into hers, and held it lightly. She offered aquick squeeze in return, but slowly removed it.Closing my eyes, I stared into the deep, into the lids ofmy eyes where the moon splashed blue with the light.“The sun will be up soon,” Amélie muttered.I opened my eyes and watched the hues of pink andorange creep above the trees, stretching their claws across thetwilight. The rhythm of her breathing against my side told meshe was sleeping, but I did not wake her. The cool night skystood bravely against the dawn. The stars, like dying embers,did their best to stay alive. I had my hopes to the contrary ofcourse, but I knew sooner or later this night would end.84 / Blackwater Review

Princess James Follows His HeartJoy JulioJames felt certain that he was in love with Summer, andwas irrationally and hopelessly hers forever. How could he not?She was the air he breathed, the movement of wind in his hair,a slender waif of sixteen with abundant chocolate-colored curlsand big dark eyes. When she batted those eyes (which was often,thanks to a genetic quirk in the maternal side of her family),it was like a ballet of lashes and mascara. Three of thosebats and James had been struck with a desire to meet her. Sixof them, and he decided she was a very sweet girl. Nine and hewas reduced to eternal bondage. It wasn’t that she really wasthe prettiest or sweetest girl in the world. It wasn’t that her hereditarydouble optical twitch was unusually charming. Jamescouldn’t really explain it; there honestly just weren’t words. Ifhe had a larger vocabulary, maybe there would have been.After a particularly long day wherein watching her anda quick conversation (“Are you using that napkin?” “No, here.”)were the only highlight, James returned home in a flutter ofuncharacteristic emotion. He couldn’t stop thinking of his lowlynapkin being used to touch those perfect lips.“She’s the one,” he grunted to the poster of PeytonManning hanging over his bed. Peyton smiled benignly. As hepondered his next move, the willowy voice of one of his littlesister’s Disney Princess CDs floated by the bedroom door.“Follow your heeeeaaaaarrrrttt!” the voice warbled. Hisbedroom door swung open, and Juliet wandered in with herpink CD player.“Read me a story?” she asked, holding up a matchingstory book. Six grinning princesses adorned the cover, prim andperky in their colorful gowns. James looked at them appraisinglyand decided none of them were as pretty as Summer, though theArabian one was kind of hot, and Cinderella had a charm he liked.The song ended as the last syllable of “…heaaaaart” faded intothe background of the maxed-out volume’s buzz.Julio / 85

“I have stuff to do,” he shrugged. She gave him an exasperatedlook, dropped the book on the bedcovers, and wanderedback out of the room. The song started up again and faded as shewent downstairs. James climbed off his bed and began pullingoff his school uniform. The little private school he attended fancieditself very polished, but the navy blue polos and single-pleatkhaki pants couldn’t redeem its rundown grounds and mishmashof alternately too sheltered or too wild students.As James readjusted the red and white striped boxershe used for pajamas, the princess book caught his eye, standingout unnaturally pink on his camouflage bedspread. The princessesin the middle of the cover were just colorful splots.“Yup, Summer’s definitely better looking,” he said underhis breath. For a man of few words, James had a lot to sayto no one.“You want to bet, Big Lips?“ a feminine voice suddenlyprojected.“Is someone there?” James looked up and around for thesource of the voice, letting his low voice go to a thundering registeras he sunk down by his bed. If whoever it was could tell he hadunusually full lips, she probably had seen the candy cane boxers,but it didn’t hurt to try and hide. Some things were best keptprivate. There was a chorus of high-pitched giggling. “Is anyonethere?” he called again, trying to sound brutish and terrifying.“Check the book cover, Handsome,” advised a secondfemale voice over more laughter. Was he on a hidden camerashow? James slowly leaned over his sister’s story book. The pictureof the six fairy tale princesses smiled up serenely as usual.Then, one of them, a red-headed mermaid, winked at him roguishly.Rubbing his eyes with one hand and wondering when hislife turned into a screwball comedy, James gingerly picked upthe book between two fingers with a tweezer-like grip.“What? Do you think we’re diseased?” a scowling princesswith a cheery red bow asked, barely holding in her annoyance.She had been the first to speak.“Hush, Snow,” said Cinderella, the only one whomJames knew by name, adjusting her blue headband. She had86 / Blackwater Review

een his first childhood crush, back in the days when he stillwatched kid movies and wore pull-ups. Heck, he still thoughtshe wasn’t bad looking for a drawing. She smiled up dazzlinglyat him; the others only fixed him with guarded gazes.“So you know a girl who’s prettier than us?” Cinderellaasked with the air of someone being serious with a child, butsecretly in hysterics. James got a better grip on the book, andshrugged. “Um . . . I guess so . . . ” When he noticed the mermaidglancing down, he moved the book more level to his faceso the boxers would be out of view. She didn’t bother hiding herdisappointment.“You guess so?” Snow asked icily. She was the youngestlookingand least curvy princess, but her attitude remindedJames of the old man that would throw the newspapers backat him during his sixth grade paper route. Any minute nowshe might pull out a cane and whack her way off the cover andthrough the delicate membranes of James’s face.“Let’s just drop it, dear,” a brunette in gold advised, layinga calming hand on Snow’s puffed sleeve. “The boy’s in love.Of course he’s a little blind.”“Mmm, we’ve all been where you’ve been, James.” Cinderellanodded understandingly.“It’s true! Listen!” tossed in the others excitedly, gettingpossibly even perkier. “We have so much advice to give you!”The words “In Love” had been uttered and the fairy tale estrogenwas flowing. Cinderella, evidentially the ringleader, raiseda gloved hand, and they fell silent.“The only thing you need to know, James,” she begansignificantly, lowering her voice so he had to lean close to thebook, “is that you must follow your heart.”“Oh,” he said simply, then carefully laid a hand over hisheart like reciting the pledge of allegiance. Cinderella was theonly one that didn’t laugh, though she smiled lightly. “That’snot quite how it works, Sweetie,” she said over the laughter.“Just do what you think you’d really, honestly wish youcould do, if you could do anything you wanted, with no limits!”the brunette in gold clarified.Julio / 87

“It’s so easy!” squealed the mermaid.Cinderella nodded. “They have it right, James, dear. Dowhat you honestly feel you should do.” She fixed him with herunnaturally blue eyes and made a move to put her hand comfortinglyon (or rather, right under) his thumb. “I promise, youwill be all the happier for it.”James shrugged; it sounded easy enough. He moved toset the book down, but with a start, he found himself strugglingto sit up. The book hadn’t moved from its spot on thecomforter; the princesses were stiff and immobile. Jamessat still, trying to figure out what happened. A few momentspassed. Then, resolutely, he picked up his cell phone and textedSummer, telling her exactly what he thought of her.Maybe that wasn’t the proper way to do it; perhaps flowerswould have been more romantic. The princesses probablywould have agreed with that; James glanced at the book. Buttexting was the easiest way to get a hold of her, and he neededto follow his heart. James wasn’t emotional, and he was hardlyof the sentimental line of thought. But he liked honesty, andthere wasn’t anything more honest than this.She didn’t write much back. Just a question mark andan abrupt good night. He took a deep breath. It wasn’t a surprisethat she was unmoved. No flowers after all. He flippedover onto his back and stared at the glow-in-the-dark starsstuck to his ceiling, relics of days long past. The princess songwarbled by again as Juliet dragged her CD player back to herroom. The dormant princess book was eerily still, Cinderella’shappy grin frozen in the middle. Strangly enough, James feltas if he sort of identified with that plastic glee. There was nofeeling of dread weighing on his shoulders as he expected fromdoing something as drastic as telling someone you loved them.He couldn’t help but smile ironically; this must have been howCinderella felt when she danced with the prince. When his cellphone began to buzz, he snapped out of his dreaming.“Oh my gawsh, James! I can not believe you did that!“The high voice of Ally rang out over the speaker. “Did what?”James asked, genuinely confused. The phone made a static-88 / Blackwater Review

filled noise of exasperation, “Duh—you totally told Summeryou love her!” James felt his jaw dangle a little bit.“How did—”“Oh, everyone will know by tomorrow!“ Ally said, laughingwith borderline hysterics. “You are so crazy, James. Did notsee it coming! I mean, I guess it was possible you liked her, butto actually tell her that you liked her—oh wait! Not like—love!Oh my gawsh!“ One more italic and James thought he was goingto burst, so he pressed the end call button. “OMG!!!!” a textmessage that popped on the screen added. Peyton Manninglooked serenely disinterested in the goings on. The princessessmiled perkily. James sighed. The phone began to vibrate again.He turned it off and rolled into the bedcovers.He slept better than a guy who was being talked to bybook covers and had just confessed undying love to a girl normallywould. When morning dawned and the alarm clock rangits repetitive 7 o’clock wake up call, James drowsily pulled himselfup. During the night the princess book had fallen off the bed,cover down with his cell phone on top of it. When he turned thephone on, its little screen dimly told of ten new text messages,most of them asking if he was stupid or demanding to knowwhy he hadn’t ever talked about Summer before. In a wink, theevents of last night came back to him. James looked at the backof the book, shrugged at the phone, then smiled broadly.Getting ready for school, James found himself feelingoddly excited for the new day. As he was pulling on his uniform,the corner of a little picture stuck in the mirror of his bureaucaught his eye. Cleverly hidden under a birthday card fromGranny, it was of him and Summer from the golden days ofmiddle school when they had liked each other. The fling hadn’tlasted longer than a week, and it was forgotten by nearly everyone.But it was easily the best seven days James had everexperienced. He still visited that week in his dreams. Now hecouldn’t help but gloat a little; what he felt for Summer then wasnothing compared to what it just became. Carefully, he pulledthe picture down and stuck it into the clear I.D. pocket on thefront of his wallet. He smiled to himself, and the reason for hisJulio / 89

strange happiness struck. There was no need to keep anythinghidden now. On the walk to school, he played doo-wop songsabout being in love on his mp3 player and sang along.James was happily ensconced in the first class of theday. He felt like a knight atop his white stallion of a desk, justan aisle over and three seats in front of Summer’s. When shewalked in, a vision in her navy blue school issue polo, Jamessmiled at her, trying to make eye contact. But she lowered hereyes, blinked involuntary, and turned the opposite directionunder the pretense of saying something to the teacher. Thechattering that had been going on around the room immediatelytook a drop. A third of the class was watching, and thesecond third was explaining to the behind-the-times last thirdwhat was going on. James felt a twinge of annoyance, but itwasn’t entirely their fault that in a small school, people can’thelp knowing everything about everyone.He thumped his pencil impatiently on the desk, wonderingwhat he might say to her when she walked by. A nod? A shorthello? Something that would show he was still good old steadyJames and nothing was going to change. Or maybe a more peppyJames, to show how glad he was he had confessed his undying loveeven if she didn’t return it. Would that impress her? Did girls likeit when guys wouldn’t take no for an answer? Oh, but what wasthat he’d heard about girls liking guys who were hard to get? No,he frowned, that wouldn’t work. She knew he was there, waitingfor the beck of a finger that might never lift. Suddenly, the DisneyPrincesses caught his eye, slapped across the front of a binderacross the aisle. In all the movies, they had just let the men cometo them, didn’t they? Even now they looked positively unsociable,yet perky and child-friendly at the same time.He decided to just wing it and see what happened, right asMr. Fields called class to order. James sat up and looked around.Summer was on the other end of the room scooting between thefar row and the wall to get to her seat the back way. The public eyeturned to James to see if he’d be upset. But he only smiled wanly,like nothing was wrong. Everyone groaned internally; a potentialscene had been avoided.90 / Blackwater Review

The day turned out to be a good subject for a videogame. From that first class onward, it was like a spear-totingnative chasing a tiger. James could understand why Summermight have felt awkward around him, but cutting through a fullclassroom, shoving a lunch lady out of the way, and hiding inthe girl’s bathroom until some of her gal pals managed to coaxher out seemed like an overreaction on Summer’s part. Moreclarity on the subject came to him when a freshman mentionedhow Summer and her closest female friends had had a powwowin the girl’s room on the James Topic.“Yeah, they figured you would keep away, but now it’sthe reverse,” the freshman said evenly, happy to share societalinformation.“She can’t get away from you fast enough!”James sighed. It wasn’t supposed to be like that.“How can you face the day?” Daniel whispered to Jamesin the middle of fifth period history. Daniel was more of a bestfriend out of need than actual desire. They were the kind ofguys that flew under the cool radar and right above the nerdone. Birds of a feather, and all that. James shrugged and turnedto a fresh page in his notebook to better record the history ofKing Henry the 8th and his six wives.“James Matthew Bolton.” Daniel put his fingertips togetherlike a villain in an action movie. “Of all the things youcould have done to make your last year of high school miserable,this will definitely be the most effective.”James kept scribbling. Some best friend Daniel was, ruininga guy’s notes like this.“You feel stupid?” Daniel asked waspishly, an edge of irritationin his words.James doodled a picture of an obese King Henry andhis six queens. The queens were coming out a lot more cutesythan tragic historical figures had a right to look. Daniel keptwhispering in an urgent tone, “What exactly are you going todo now? You’re the laughing stock of Niceville. People are goingto be pointing at you on the streets and telling their childrenabout the day they saw the world’s biggest loser.”Julio / 91

James didn’t react for a second as poor Daniel franticallytried to calculate if his association with James would nowlower him to the nerd category. James thought for a momentof telling Daniel that the Disney Princesses were partially toblame for it all. Then he decided to shrug instead. That andgrunting were his preferred method of communication. DisneyPrincesses would need more explanation than he was eitherwilling or able to give.Daniel tried to see through James’s poker face, but therewasn’t one to look through. He was naturally dead-panned. Finally,as the teacher approached the end of her lecture, Jamesclosed his notebook on the fat man and the six queens.“I guess . . . ” James grimaced to break the default expressionon his face then made a tender try at expressing his emotions(he’d never tried to explain his feelings to Daniel before,and the effort was taking its toll). “I’m not too worried aboutanything,” he finished and gave an apologetic little smile.“You’re kidding.” Daniel’s eyes narrowed.James shrugged again. “I just like not having anythingto hide. I’ve got pre-cal now.”James was not known for his amazing conversationaltransitions. Together they stood up with the rest of the studentsand moved towards the door. When James peeled offfrom the crowd towards his next class, Daniel wondered aloudwhy he even bothered to try to talk to someone who was theemotional equivalent of a rock. Maybe there were other friendsto be made in the nerd vs. popular no man’s land.Pre-cal started with a blur of formulas and functions.James didn’t have his mind on the subject. Summer, who hadarrived late (“Because I got lost,” she said lamely to the teacher),was weighing on his mind. He could see the back of her beautifulhead from his seat. She and her blonde friend Tina werewhispering in hushed tones. Summer kept her head turnedfirmly towards the whiteboard, but Tina kept glaring back athim with curious black-rimmed eyes. She tapped Summer’sshoulder with a freakishly long fingernail and cocked her headtowards James’s direction. Summer gripped the edge of the92 / Blackwater Review

desk and leaned across to hiss something to Tina. James wasn’tsure exactly what, but he caught the word “weird” in it. So didmost of the rest of the class since Summer’s voice had becomeso shrill and forced at the word. Mr. Martin shot her a glareover his graphing calculator.“Miss Kinard, would you please come demonstrate thisnext problem on the board?” he asked in sarcastic tones.Mr. Martin was known to be slightly vengeful on thestudents he knew weren’t paying attention.“And Mr. Bolton, I’d like you to join her.”The air left the room for a second as all the studentsgasped collectively. That day, the legends of Mr. Martin’s connivinggrew a little more fantastical.Trying not to look too pleased, James joined Summerat the board. It was a blessing to her, a calm part of Jamesremarked to the part that was turning somersaults. Sheprobably hadn’t listened to the lecture at all. James, whowas nothing short of a math whiz, would be able to help herout of a jam. But not without a small fee, he decided, leaningclose to her under the pretense of “explaining” the problem.“So, you pretty annoyed with me?” he asked, smilinga little at the corners of his mouth. Summer raised hershoulders in a weak shrug.“I don’t know how you expected me to react to that,James.”He was silent for a moment. His hand gripped the dryerase marker tighter as he sketched out a graph.“You could just tell me how you feel about it.”He pressed a little harder into the board. “I’m notsorry I told you anyway.”Summer flushed. “James, do you have to talk aboutthis now?”He shrugged. “I doubt I’ll get a hold of you anytimelater. Look, Summer.” His voice fell to a hardly deduciblewhisper as he kept writing formulas on the board. “I loveyou, and I wanted you to know that. We don’t ever have totalk about it again. It doesn’t matter if you don’t love me. IJulio / 93

just wanted you to know.” He stopped writing and handedher the marker.She bit her lip and looked up at him from under thesilken fringes of her lashes. She hadn’t worn mascara that day.The unintended come-hither look of her eyes seemed to weardown fast on James’s resolve to not act differently with her. Afew moments passed. A few twitches disturbed the perfectionof her lashes. She didn’t do anything with the marker, so hecarefully reached down to move her hand. At the moment hishand touched hers, her eyes flashed to life with a look that wasanything but desiring. Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper.“Look, James, pardon my language, but you’re just being. . .” She gulped swallowing her courage. “Retarded! And . . . ” shelooked down at where his hand was still on hers. “And I’m goingto tell my dad about you.”The rest of the day, the little private school was abuzzwith the results of the pre-cal conversation. No one had actuallyheard the whole thing, of course, but Summer had told Tina,so most people were pretty sure of their information. Speculationon what was going to happen next ran rampant.“Mr. Kinard? James will have to face him?”“Doesn’t Mr. Kinard have a collection of bear traps he likesto polish whenever guys come pick up his daughters for dates?”Even Mrs. Eaves, the ancient English teacher had input.“James has crawled from the mortal coil into a writhingpit of oblivion. I’d like a short composition on the subject ofinadvertently going to one’s doom turned in next week.”James heard all these rumors and whispers with detachedfeelings. He wasn’t entirely sure what his thoughtswere on crawling into oblivion. Perhaps Summer would cry andswoon at his funeral, racked with guilt over causing his earlydemise. But then, considering the way she had taken to ignoringhim resolutely (even when he talked to her, butted intoher conversations, and tried to leave notes on her locker), itwasn’t likely. As much as James enjoyed having the freedom toexpress just what he felt, there weren’t really that many advantagespast self-actualization. Cinderella apparently had never94 / Blackwater Review

seen the real world. The next time he passed a princess binder,he stuck out his tongue at it as far as it would go. The girl carryingit went on to tell everyone that James Bolton was a rudebutthole who deserved to be crushed.Walking down the sidewalk back home at the end of thelong day, James dragged his feet and played the one screamosong he owned over and over. Vaguely, he heard the honking ofa horn. A truck loaded up with half the school’s football team init rattled by: “Dudes! There’s the dork who made himself looklike a freakin’ idiot!” the quarterback, who was driving, yelled.Hoots and boos from the rest of the jocks followed. One tosseda half finished Coke from McDonald’s out in James’s generaldirection. Stickiness splashed all over his pleated khakis andoxfords. The truck and its jeering occupants rode off in a sea ofmirth, leaving James sopping in their remnants. Three minuteslater, a sharp looking red Corvette pulled up alongside him. Thewindow scrolled down silently, and James found himself lookingface to face with the biggest man he had ever seen before.Feeling a need to be polite, he pulled off his headphones.“James Bolton?” the man’s massive head asked, beadyeyes half hidden behind little mirrored sunglasses. James hada wild urge to hide his name, identity, and very being fromthe hippo-like mammoth. An alias dangled at the door of hismouth, but he was too honest to let it out.“Yes, sir, I am.” The man fixed James with an appeasingeye. “I’d offer to drive you home while we talk, but I can’t riskyou messing up my upholstery. Let’s make this a quick chat. I’mMr. Kinard.”James nodded and offered a sticky hand. Mr. Kinardignored it.“Now look here, James. I’m sure you’re a nice boy” (anotheraskew glance at James’s dirty pants), “and I’m sure you have onlythe best intentions for my daughter. But …” Mr. Kinard lookedat him piercingly while James stood awkwardly, jiggling his foot.“You’re not the one for her.” James remained silent, staring hardat the shiny red car door. He could see a squashed reflection ofhimself, complete with stained pants and untucked shirt.Julio / 95

“You’re not up to her level. And I honestly mean that in thebest way.” Mr. Kinard made a little crooked smile that he probablymeant to make him look understanding but was only condescending.He waited a moment to see if James would protest or agree,but nothing came. Mr. Kinard shrugged and started to roll the windowup again. “You know, you’re creeping her out, James. If youvalue anything about her, you’ll just be happy with her friendship,or whatever you had before, and drop this entire ‘love’ thing.”More silence on James’s part. Then James gave a little nod.“Okay,” he said, trudging along his way again without putting hisheadphones back on. Mr. Kinard nodded, hollered some genericsalutation to the back of his head and drove off.On arriving home, a syrupy mess with the echoes ofscreamo still pouring out of his headphones, James felt like avictim of a massacre, sticky with gore, the cries of the dyingaround him, and immune to all happiness. His mother met himat the door with a hug and a cookie fresh from the oven.“Mr. Kinard was around here looking for you, dear! Areyou going to start mowing his lawn? You’ve been needing agood job,” she said lovingly, running a hand through his lightbrown hair and shoving the cookie into his hands.“Oh, what’s that all over your pants, sweetie?” James gaveher a non-committed grunt and skulked upstairs to change.The stupid princess book was still lying face down onthe floor. After changing into yesterday’s jeans, he half heartedlyflipped the book over.“Things not going like you hoped?” Cinderella asked,looking disappointed under her cellophane covering. Jamesnodded absently, slapping his phone open and closed. The otherprincesses gave him sympathetic looks.“These things happen,” an exotic looking girl with oliveskin threw out. “You just have to keep going!”“She’s right,” Snow White chimed in. “Just keep it up!You know what you have to do.”The others got riled up at the start of their mantra.“Yes, James! C’mon! You got to do it! Believe in yourself!”they all started to chant shrilly.96 / Blackwater Review

“Do it! Just follow your—”James swung out his foot and kicked the book under hisbed as hard as he could. He thought he heard feminine screamsand shrieks, but he ignored them. It was probably just Julietwatching TV.Julio / 97

98 / Blackwater ReviewTomatoJia FlynnFather comes home. We’re sitting down togetherin the kitchen around our weathered wooden tablewith a second-hand tablecloth marked with marker stains.We say grace in the kitchen, praying to God thatthe next paycheck doesn’t bounce. In the kitchen,with its grungy cabinets and scuffed linoleum.With its leaking General Electric fridge that’s never made ice.With its old chrome sink that always backs up,vomiting last night’s leftovers.This house, this filthy, brown carpet stinks of cat pissand dog piss and mildew and mold and the remnantsof someone else’s life, and the ceiling’s falling inand roaches are in my bed, and…And my brother’s yelling.And my father’syelling at my mother’sscreaming at my brother’syelling; everyone’sshouting car alarms and five secondsuntil the bomb,except me.I’m staring at this bloody mass of spaghetti,trying not to listen.My mother throws the insolent pieceOf shit against the wall, and screams and screams,and she’s got him by the collar, oh god and now,the ceiling fan is swinging. Will it fall on my head?The pasta worms squirm in my stomach, the rusting sink

whispers, let it up, let it up, let it all up.Fear and panic as acrid as garlic, as sick as tomato sauce.She’s thrown him against the wall.Mother turns to me, with her bony hands wrappedaround his plaid button-up shirt and shrieks,“What are you looking at?”I am eight years old. I swallow and say,“There’s a crack in the wall.”Flynn / 99

BreadJia FlynnHe’s not home yet.Momma slams down yeasty bread doughon the faded counter topin a rhythm.“Swing low, sweet chariot.”Sunlight filters through red gingham curtainsand she swallows the tight lumpin her throat with a wash ofwatered-down ice tea.Bread doesn’t make itself,and she’s got mouths to feed.100 / Blackwater Review

Tornadoes and Green BeansLaurie StoneIt’s like the green beans you eat before you eat the gravysmotheredmashed potatoes. You don’t even want the greenbeans, but you’re saving the mashed potatoes for last becausewhen you’re finished, you know that’s the last taste you wantto have in your mouth. That’s what it’s like to walk a long hotpath to the water on a day that is so hot you feel you would fryright up if you stood still too long. So you keep trekking. Afterall, your mother sent you there, so you know it’s going to begood. So you keep trekking over the long hot ground and sandand make your way to the beach where the rest of your brothersand sisters are enjoying the soft breezes from the ocean. It’sthe only place to be on a day this hot and you’re family is camping.It’s the only place to get some relief from a day so scorching.So you trek and keep trekking and feel the burn on the feet thatyour mom did not have time to notice, that she sent bare onthis journey and you know it’s worth it. This you know for sure.When you get there it is going to be worth it. It’s going to feelso good to be by the shore, taking in the cool breezes from theocean front and enjoying the refreshing water.But it isn’t worth it. You feel it immediately. Your entirebody is anticipating relief, and that is it, what it never seesuntil the scorching sun finally goes down and now you are withyour whole family by the fire and the ocean breezes are finallyallowed to reach you and some relief is finally felt. Your Momtakes you and the rest of the six flock of chicks and she headsfor the showers. And you stand there, and you wait patientlyfor the shower that really doesn’t feel so great in the warm humidcinderblock building on red hot skin. You take the showeranyway because it’s like the green beans; after the necessaryshower and you leave the building, the soft ocean winds willfinally cool your fired skin.But it isn’t worth it tonight. Tonight it is especially notworth it because when your mom leaves with her flock, every-Stone / 101

one is in a panic. Everyone is running, and everything is runningright by you in the other direction. Even the flames, maybe fromthe campfire you were just watching contained at your campsite,is now running right by you the other direction. It’s as if everythingin the whole world knows which direction to be runningbut your mother and her flock. But you know it’s going to beworth it. It’s like the green beans. Right? It will be just like thegreen beans. Your mother will be taking you to a better place.This place feels all wrong and that must be why everyone is running.It will be worth it.But it isn’t worth it. Everything was running the otherdirection, and you should have followed. While everything wasrunning the other direction, you and your mom and the restof the flock get into your camp trailer. And you are frightened,and just like the green beans that get swallowed up, you andyour mom and the rest of the flock get swallowed up by thetwister that was making everything run in the other direction.And it’s over just as quickly as it started. You were swallowedup whole, but the storm spits you out. And it is over justas quickly. You wake up and are greeted by blackness and shouts,and your mom takes her flock that was just spit across the roadand she takes them back to the cinderblock shower that has nowbecome a hospital. And it still doesn’t feel very good. It has apool of red water on its floor, and you wait with your mom andyou are told you need some stitches on a cut that you couldn’teven feel. You reach up to feel where they say you need stitchesand it just feels wet. Your mom is told she needs to go, too. Youdon’t know why yet. She just needs to go, too.So you need to get stitches. So you go with your mom. Andyou know it will be like the green beans. You don’t even want them,but this thing will stop feeling so wet, you think, when you get them.But it’s not worth it. They don’t use anything to numbyou and it’s so not worth it. But your dad commands you totake it. So you take it. You take it like the green beans.And finally, it’s worth it. Your family is home. You arein bed. And it feels so good. You feel the warm soft sheets andthey feel so good against your tired, hot skin. Except you finally102 / Blackwater Review

allow yourself to feel the panic that was chased out of you fromthe tornado. The panic was running the other direction. Butnow it is back, and you shout out, “Mom.” And one from theflock says sternly, “Leave Mom alone. She can’t come to you.”And so you take it, like the green beans. You just accept it.Later you find out your mom couldn’t come to you becauseher back was broken. When the tornado swallowed youup and spit you and your mom and the rest of the flock acrossthe road, it broke her back. You don’t know what that is, butyou accept it like the green beans.And you think of it today. And today it’s finally worth it.Today you can appreciate the fact that it’s a good thing tornadoesdon’t like green beans and they just spit them right out.Stone / 103

FlawlessEric FarmerBeneath smooth sheets,I only see your curves,your flawless form.I pull the sheets to seeyour shining eyes,glazed and glassed.They used to shimmerwhen you looked at me.Shriveled lips that used to tremblestitched with rotting twine.Brittle hair, like stiff spider silk,Stains the air with odors of decay,like lukewarm bile.I close your lids,and give you a kiss,as maggots hatch from eggs.104 / Blackwater Review

21st-Century WolfKyle WebbPromiscuous. That’s her to a T. Voluptuous frame, fullred pucker, diamonds for eyes. I’m that lucky guy she’s neverwith: her husband. Five years. Five years of items and memorandumtrailing her escapades. Strange boxers in the hamper,used condom bobbing in the toilet, wrong cologne at the sink.She thinks I don’t know. I know; I just don’t give a shit. As longas I occasionally get mine, I’m a happy camper. Right as rain.Walking on sunshine. I don’t care simply because she’s damngood bait.I stare blankly, just been on a six-hour flight. The whirof the carousel. The tiny squeak of the conveyor belt cylinders.The whining chatter of little kids. The constant cacophony ofpeople on cell phones. The same tear on the belt resurfacingtime after time. The steady rhythm between the clunk of luggageand mock silence when the carousel seems to be empty.The same unclaimed bags and suitcases perpetually appearingand disappearing. And me with a migraine the size of a fat kidwith diabetes.My cell rings. It’s her. She’s at the bar.Her speech is slurred and eyelids barely open. The usualCosmo, signature extra twist of lime, at her arm.“Hey, babe,” she says, nearly an asinine grunt.“You got the ticket?”“’Course.” She rummages through her handbag. Crimsonfaux crocodile, too small for a dwarf. Chatter all around.Single-serving friends sharing single-serving stories. Books athand, drinks at the other. Terminal announcements muffledby a Billboard 100 hit. Elton John, Eric Clapton, Bruce Springsteen.“Flight 2039 now boarding. All passengers please bechecked in at this time.” I’m handed a crumpled paper with adelirious grin. “C’mn . . . less dohit,” she hiccups.“Maybe later. When you don’t reek of rancid fruit.” Iwalk away, leaving her to bat mascara at the bartender.Webb / 105

She loves to travel. That’s how she meets most of them. Companyvice-chairman, secretary of finances, senior board delegate. Allvery well-to-do. To do her indeed. I certainly did. Hell, I married her. Shepretends they’re business associates, and, in a way, they are. Me, I hateto travel.Meat market for the rich and famous. I mingle and converse,threading my way through the throngs. A brown Armani, polarizedOakleys, and a dazzling crescent meet me at a far wall. Quick wordsare exchanged and the paper is passed from hand to hand. Gossipand chatter fill the hall of tans and pearls. Snippets catch my ear.A new mogul, a mass media messiah. Some new wonder high. Everythingyou could ever want from a spa in a new home treatment.Bland and uninteresting.Out of the flock I check the ticket. I hit speed dial: my broker.“I’ll take a hundred shares.”Now maybe I’ll endure the fumes and oblige my breadwinner.106 / Blackwater Review

My BoySarah CrowCradling his large head in my arms, I kissed my boy goodbyebetween his large, expressive eyes. No words were neededas I traced his cheeks, cupping my hands around them. I heldhis large head, hugging it close, running my fingers through hismane. He lifted his head, somehow knowing I was going away.I stepped back a couple of paces, looking at his striking profileagainst the green-grassed hills and a sky so blue and cloudless.His eyes looked so sadly at me, pleading that I not go, yet hestood, unmoving. Turning away, I walked through two gates,each one’s shutting behind me causing a deeper twinge of pain.I looked back to see him, capturing his gentle eyes still lookingat me. This is how I will always remember him.Walking away, not knowing if I would ever come back,could not have been more difficult. I had whispered my promisein his ear, that if ever I could, I would return for him and takehim to a better home, one where I could care for him.Now, two months later, I look at the crude ring I madefrom his hair, both tightly and loosely woven, giving the impressionof order and freedom entwined. I remember how wonderfulit felt to lean my head against him, and the way throwingmy arms around him relieved my anxiety, my worries, and myfears. I found I could cry on his shoulder, finding comfort whilecombing my fingers through his beautiful mane.Far away, my boy lives his simple life, rarely disturbed orchallenged. Does he ever miss me as he looks across his beautifullytree-framed fields? Does he miss our walks, our daringgames of chase, and our wars of wits?In a winter pasture, frost engraved, a brown and whitepaint closes his eyes and dreams of his lively girl.Crow / 107

Davenport: Where the Lost are FoundDeborah R. MajorsShe makes her nest on the very endof town, a far place where lonelinessis her ottoman, chocolate her friend,soaps an excuse for her tears’ blindness.The ringing of the doorbell sends herfleeing to the bedroom, heart beating,holding her breath ‘til the trespassergives up, her cue for the releasingof hot panic as a controlled, slowstream of relief. Slight lift of curtainreveals a clear coast to heat pekoetea, then return to be forgottenby self-exile, requested deportto nest at the end of Davenport.108 / Blackwater Review

AmberMatt PiersonShe sat there, listening to her headphones. She waswatching the cars on the highway with a perfect complexionand a blank expression. Her view from the hammock on thatgrassy hill was “one of the most beautiful views in the county”(E.R.A. Real Estate Catalogue House #91). What she really sawwas this: a street going to an exit ramp with cars slowly filingdown it to the unseen interstate below. The queue was insurmountablebecause a sofa had fallen out of the back of a truckin the middle of the road.Her knoll was shaded by a falling oak tree, her housesituated across the street behind her. Her only shelter from thebeating sun was a copse of trees: oaks ostracized from the collectiveforest for the injustice of human use. A cop was tryingto make his way on the side of the road to the top of the ramp,but he was making little progress, lights and all.The wildflowers on that side of the hill reflected and absorbedthe police light, making something like a natural Kandinskypainting. By an odd sort of choice, she couldn’t see thebeauty of the flowers, but simply sat there. Her phone was sittingon the kitchen counter, the light streaming out of its wildlysinging face. She thought that maybe all that this required wasa simple solution: a different way of looking at things, a simplesolution to a complicated problem.She couldn’t smile about yesterday, and she had beentrying to smile about it since it had happened. She had smiledthen, though she wasn’t sure what type of smile that was. Shewondered if her face had been the same as his, like a mirror just. . . but she couldn’t really think about something like that. Shehadn’t thought about it much in the couple hours beforehand,though when she thought back on it, maybe she had . . . . Shewas pretty sure he had thought about it quite a bit. Why elsewould he have said that? Why would he call her “honey” and“baby” and . . . . He had smiled afterwards, and maybe it was justPierson / 109

after, and that’s why, but nothing seemed any brighter. Wasn’tthere some brightness or drastic change in perspective afterwards?Not that anything was amazingly bright to begin with,but this definitely couldn’t be it.It had been raining, at the time, and he had a truck witha double cab and a long back seat. There’s something to be saidabout back seats, but with all the clichés, that was exactly whathad happened. She had been pushed into it, in more than oneway. Afterwards, he thought that she was unresponsive andglazed over like . . . a mosquito trapped in a piece of amber. Buthe didn’t really think that what had happened was anythinglike primordial tar. He had taken her home, and he had saidgoodnight, and she hadn’t said much of anything since then.She had eaten herself through with questions. She waslike a mouse now; she couldn’t resist. She didn’t notice the flowersanymore or her music or anything she used to find solace in.She was commiserative with magnified ants, and mosquitoesin amber.He pulled into her driveway and rang the doorbell. Hermother answered the door and said that she was out in thehammock and that maybe he should take her phone to herbecause it had been ringing non-stop. He walked through thetrees, vines stinging his ankles, and stepped unnoticed underthe trees. She was confused because he was here. She didn’tremember making any plans for today, and she had told himthat she had a lot of homework to do, thankyouverymuch, sojust give her some time to do that and then they could do somethingthat night, like a movie or something, but nothing tooexhausting because she had church in the morning. He lookedat her and smiled. He proffered her cell phone, and she took it.She checked it and saw six missed calls. Six missed calls fromhim. She caught his smile with her eyes and had a small momentof déjà vu. She had an instinct to roll her eyes, but insteadshe hesitated. She waited for the smallest eternity andforced herself to smile. A small, shuddering, melancholy, androsy smile.110 / Blackwater Review

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ANN PATCHETTBEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF BEL CANTONorthwest Florida State College is honored to presentaward-winning writer Ann Patchett as the 2009 visiting author.Each spring, in conjunction with the unveiling of BlackwaterReview and the presentation of the Northwest FloridaState College Reads program, the college invites an accomplishedauthor to meet with students, faculty, and the community.This year, Ms. Patchett conducted a reading of her workthe evening of April 20 in the Sprint Theater at the Mattie KellyFine Arts Center. On April 21, she presented a workshop forstudents, faculty, and the community on the craft of writing.The NWF State College Reads program also hosted aweek of readings and symposiums for students and faculty todiscuss Ms. Patchett’s work.* * *Ann Patchett is the best-selling author of Bel Canto,which won both the PEN/Faulkner Award and the Orange Prizein 2002. Bel Canto was a finalist for the National Book CriticsCircle Award and was named the Book Sense Book of the Year.It sold over a million copies in the United States and has beentranslated into thirty languages. Her most recent book, Run,was a New York Times bestseller.112 / Blackwater Review

In 2004, Patchett published Truth & Beauty, a memoir ofher friendship with the writer Lucy Grealy. It was named one ofthe Best Books of the Year by the Chicago Tribune, the San FranciscoChronicle, and Entertainment Weekly. Truth & Beauty was also a finalistfor the Los Angeles Times Book Prize and won the ChicagoTribune’s Heartland Prize, the Harold D. Vursell Memorial Awardfrom the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and the AlexAward from the American Library Association.Patchett has written for numerous publications, includingThe New York Times Magazine, Harper’s Magazine, TheAtlantic, The Washington Post, Gourmet, and Vogue. She was alsothe editor for Best American Short Stories 2006.Born in Los Angeles in 1963, Patchett was raisedin Nashville. She attended Sarah Lawrence College and theUniversity of Iowa Writers’ Workshop. In 1990, she won a residentialfellowship to the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown,Massachusetts, where she wrote her first novel, The PatronSaint of Liars. It was named a New York Times Notable Bookfor 1992. In 1993, she received a Bunting Fellowship from theMary Ingrahm Bunting Institute at Radcliffe College. Patchett’ssecond novel, Taft, was awarded the Janet Heidinger KafkaPrize for the best work of fiction in 1994. Her third novel, TheMagician’s Assistant, was short-listed for England’s OrangePrize and earned her a Guggenheim Fellowship.Bio courtesy of APB.Visiting Author / 113

ContributorsChelsea Alford is a 20-year-old artisit pursuing her BA inGraphic Arts. She draws inspiration from music as well as theworld around her.Loren Boyer is a graduate of Niceville High School and FloridaState University. He refuses to accept that he is too old to weara beret.Sarah Crow is a college student majoring in biology.Eric Farmer is interested in writing, art, history, and psychology.He has no idea where to go or what to study.Jia Flynn is in her second year of college studying art andgraphic design. She plans to take over the world with a sporkand a Marble of Returning and anticipates a zombie apocalypsesometime during her lifetime.Colby B. Fox is a student at NWF State College. He has had theopening number from Oliver! stuck in his head since 1994.Adam Guiles is currently working on his AA. He plans todouble major in history and pharmaceutical science.Sandra Clay Harrison received all of her formal art educationhere at NWF State College.Anita Hester lives in Fort Walton Beach and is a graduate ofNWFState college. Her two main mediums are dye on silk andpottery.Sharon James did not discover art until her retirement butgreatly enjoys it.114 / Blackwater Review

Samantha Johnson was born in Virginia in 1985. She isa mother of two with a love of photography. She is studyingcriminal justice.Joy Julio is a sophomore at NWF State College studying forher AA. She plans to attend Belhaven College in Jackson, MS,next fall, pursuing a degree in art. She one day hopes to writeand illustrate children’s books.Anita Koester is enjoying the challenges of working with watercolorafter 25 years as a potter.Emily K. Knudsen is a sophomore at NWF State College majoringin fine arts.Joan M. Langham has been painting for years. Figures are hermain interest.Jerry Leafgreen has recently earned his AA degree and islooking forward to working towards his BA degree.Edward J. Lewis is a retired Air Force veteran currently enrolledin the AA degree program in digital media/multimediatechnology.Deborah R. Majors enjoys writing, playing the autoharp, andusing both skills to embarrass her two teenage sons.Edanette Marquez is an aspiring commercial designer whois deeply inspired by lyricism and color. She strives to captureemotions and social implications that reflect her life experiences.Jane Montgomery is a retired software professional who holdsa certificate in photography from the University of Alabama inHuntsville. Her photographic interests are digital imaging andnature subjects.Contributors / 115

Dara North is an art major who occasionally dabbles in creativewriting ventures. She graduates from NWF State Collegein Spring 2009 and will attend Savannah College of Art andDesign in Fall 2009.Matt Pierson has distinguished himself as a man of few wordsbut many sentences. He considers this a blessing but is cursedwith not being allowed to die until he has written a ninety-pageepic poem involving the courtship and marriage of Eleanor ofAquitane with Kobe Bryant.Clarence Norbert Quinlan, IV, in a long line of Clarence N.Quinlans, is a dual-enrolled student majoring in acting and finearts. He plans to attend the University of Central Florida’s FilmSchool in the fall and study directing and film production.Tawanah Reeves is a senior at the Collegiate High School ofNWF State College. She plans to attend the University of CentralFlorida and double major in journalism and Spanish.Kayla M. Richter is a 22-year-old who enjoys pottery. She isfinishing her AA degree while making art.Chris Sirico is an aspiring illustrator and graphic designer. Heworks in oils, graphite and other traditional media as well asdigital art.Aasha Sriram is a young artist who recently relocated fromIndia. She hopes to study computer graphics and become a 3Danimator.Laurie Stone is a college student hoping to continue her education.She would like to study creative writing.116 / Blackwater Review

Jake Vermillion is a junior in high school dual enrolled atNWF State College full time. He is currently majoring in architectureand is planning to transfer to a four-year universityafter graduating from high school.Christian Walker is a senior at the Collegiate High School atNWF State College and hopes his cherubic looks will lead tosuccess and prosperity.Kyle Webb, Keelay to friends, is earning his general AA at NWFState College. He plans on study English and perhaps eventuallyto teach it.Contributors / 117

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